by Joan Smith
The umbrella was not needed by the time they arrived at the block of flats where McRaney lived. A young gentleman was coming out the door of the building as they approached it. He stopped, looked at them in astonishment and said, “Why, it’s Reggie Prance, is it not? I haven’t seen you for years, Reg. How are you keeping?”
Prance had to search his memory to put a name to the vaguely familiar face. “Fine thank you, er —"
“It’s John Henderson,” the man said. “Mad Jack they called me at Cambridge.”
“Mad Jack, of course!” Prance said, smiling. Then turned to Corinne to make the introductions.
She shook hands with the handsome young gentleman and heard that John was a prime cut-up at university, before he was sent down for what was politely termed “insubordination”, but seemed to involve seriously roughing up a tutor. She tried to control her distaste at this tale.
“What are you doing now, John?” Prance asked.
“I’ve just come to town. Pockets to let, or I wouldn’t be staying in this place. I’m looking for a position to supplement my measly allowance. I just moved in here yesterday.”
“Had you heard there was a murder here last week?”
“I heard — after I had signed the lease. They put me in the murdered fellow’s room. If I’d known, I’d have got a lower rent. I don’t have to ask what you’ve been up to, Reg. I see your book everywhere I go. I hear you’re with the Berkeley Brigade.”
“I am indeed. That’s why we’re here. We’re following up some clues in the Harry Bolton murder here, where it all began.”
“That’s the fellow who was done in in my flat. I wonder what he was up to that got him killed. I should have a look around. P’raps he robbed a bank and has hidden the money,” he said, laughing, to hide his concern. Why did they keep coming back here? Were they on to him? “There might be a clue. I found some papers taped to the bottom of a drawer in the desk. They got pulled off when I stuffed the drawer below too full. I’ll let you know if —”
“Oh I say, John, you must let me have a look at those paper,” Reg exclaimed.
Old Reg was as stupid and vain as ever and had taken the bait. Thought he had just single-handedly solved the case. Reg hadn’t realized who he was talking to, but their so-called Brigade was taking too much interest in this house. Pity he had said he just moved in. When they got together to compare notes, Pattle or Luten would soon figure it out. Why take chances? He had always hated Sir Reginald anyway, the demmed fop. Pity he hadn’t come alone.
“Why — certainly, if you like, but they don’t look very interesting. Just names and places. I doubt they had anything to do with Harry Bolton, for half of them are in French. They must have been left by someone who had the room before him.”
Every word Henderson said made Prance more eager and more determined to see those papers. “We shan’t detain you long,” Prance said, taking his arm and more or less pushing him back into the hallway.
“Right this way,” Henderson said, and led them up the stairs to Room 302. “Don’t mind the mess,” he said.
Corinne looked around at the small living room and felt some pity for the handsome young man. She supposed it was typical of the sort of flat a bachelor without much money lived in.
He went to the desk and opened the top drawer. When his hand came out it held a pistol, which he pointed at them. His friendly smile was transmogrified into a menacing grin. “Now what the devil am I going to do with you two?” he said.
“For heaven’s sake, John,” Prance said, “this is no time to be playing off your tricks. Give me the papers.”
Corinne’s heart leapt into her throat. John Henderson wasn’t joking — and he wasn’t John Henderson either. Well he must be, of course since Prance had apparently known him for years, but he was also Eric Martin. He fit the description to a T, and he had been living here all the time! The room, now that she considered it, didn’t have the air of a flat just being occupied. There were no boxes waiting to be unpacked, no little items in odd places waiting to find their proper niche. The littered desk had obviously been in use for weeks.
She gave Reggie’s elbow a tug. “Reg, he means it,” she said in a weak voice.
Prance considered himself something of an expert in reading facial expressions. One of his hobbies was drama, and he usually knew when someone was acting. Henderson wasn’t acting. He had always been a wild lad. That incident with his tutor at Cambridge — hadn’t the tutor been hospitalized? It was only through the influence of Henderson’s guardian that he’d got away with being sent down, instead of sent to prison. Old Lord Brampton had influence in high places — including the Horse Guards! Henderson was Eric Martin! And he was getting his information from his guardian.
His instinct was to take Corinne’s arm and run for the door. Would Henderson shoot them in broad daylight, with other occupants close enough to hear the shot? Yes, he would. That was why he had lured them in here. He was a wild and wily, reckless rogue. He’d do it, and get away with it somehow. Shoot them both and stick the pistol in Prance’s hand, make up some story of self-defense and an accidental shot hitting Corinne or some such thing.
“Don’t even think about it,” Henderson said, with one of his smiles that was more menacing than the pistol. He went to the door and locked it, all the while with his pistol aimed at them.
Corinne willed down the surging panic and tried to think what to do. “You can’t shoot us both,” she said. “You’d never get away. Tie us up, gag us and make a run for it. It’s your best option.”
Henderson sneered. “Pistols aren’t my only weapon, milady. A knife doesn’t make a sound, as Bolton discovered.”
Prance’s mind was racing. He couldn’t stab them both at once. He’d have to disable them somehow. He knew instinctively that he’d stab the man first, to be rid of what he considered the more dangerous one. And once he had the man out of the way, what might he not do to Corinne? His smile had a leering quality as he ran his eyes over her.
Both Prance and Corinne were looking around the room, hoping to discover a weapon they might snatch up. A silence stretched while the three stood, each wildly thinking how to successfully break this impasse. Then Henderson said, “You, Prance, on the floor, face down. Too bad about your jacket, but where you’re going it won’t matter, fop!”
Chapter Thirty-three
Luten had no interest in being a hero. As a good Englishman he knew it was his duty to protect England. As a married man now, he also knew he had responsibilities to his wife and hopefully, before too long, a family. The important thing was to find Martin/McRaney and stop him, without losing his own life. Martin was wily and reckless. It would be foolhardy to confront him alone. He’d see if Coffen and Black had returned yet. Or in the worst case, Reggie. He seemed to have found his backbone lately. If none of them was available, he’d pick up Townsend to go with him.
He left his rig standing in front of the house and ran in. Evans informed him that Mr. Pattle and Black had not returned yet. Madam had left with Mr. Prance to visit Mr. McRaney. Luten’s heart turned to ice at the news.
Why the devil had she gone there, of all places? Had she learned in some manner that McRaney was Martin? Did she actually imagine that she and Reggie could capture that cunning knave? None of them here to go with him, and to stop at Bow Street might mean the difference between life and death. He must go alone.
“When Pattle and Black come back, send them to McRaney’s place at once,” he said to Evans. “They know where it is.”
Evans saw Luten’s pale face, heard the strain in his voice, and knew something extraordinary was in the works — and Black not here to be a part of it, for once. “Certainly, milord. Er — dare I suggest that I would be happy to accompany you if — if you feel — that is — I am a pretty fair shot.”
A sound like an hysterical laugh issued unbidden from Luten’s lips. “Certainly, Evans. Why not? Grab a pistol and don’t bother with a coat.”
Evans did
n’t bother informing Roberts where they were going, or to take over the door either. He just told the gaping parlour maid to attend to her duties, then hastened to the butler’s room to grab the pistol he kept there and ran out after Luten, who had the carriage door open. He leapt in just as Luten gave his driver the destination and ordered him to “spring ‘em.”
Evans took note of the address. He wasn’t such a dab hand as Black at eavesdropping, but he knew well enough where Mr. Bolton had been murdered, and where McRaney lived. He held the pistol carefully. “You think Madam is in danger, milord?” he asked.
“I fear it may be so, Evans,” he replied in a grim voice. “Kind of you to volunteer.”
Seeing his lordship was in no mood for conversation, Evans sat silent, being bounced up and down mercilessly as the carriage bolted through town, nearly side-swiping a curricle and leaving raised fists and curses behind. He was half delighted to be in on the action, and half regretting his rash offer to help. Excellent butler that he was, he also worried that the door would go unanswered if anyone called, or nearly as bad, be answered by the parlour maid. When — if — he returned, he would leave word that should he have to leave in a hurry again, the parlour maid should immediately inform Roberts to assume his duties.
By the time the carriage drew up in front of the unimposing building, he had come to terms with the possibility of death and hopped out after Luten with no hesitation. After all, he was fifty years of age. He had lived a good life, and was ready to die a good death, if the lord so ordained.
Luten saw Corinne’s carriage waiting at the curb, and didn’t know whether that was a good thing or bad. All it said for sure was that she hadn’t left. He spoke to the driver who described the meeting with the “young gentleman”, who seemed to be well known to Sir Reginald. This was heartening, until he got a description of the “young gentleman”. Was it possible that Prance actually knew Martin? It must be he knew him under some other name.
Now where had Coffen said he met McRaney? Room 302, wasn’t it? They went softly, swiftly, up the stairs, Luten and Evans, and along the hall to room 302. The door was closed. Luten tried the knob and learned it was locked. Was he at the wrong door? Was there no one home? Had McRaney already spirited them off to some private spot to kill them? A lady and a gentleman who disliked violence and had broken ribs besides — what hope was there for them against the wily Martin?
He put his ear to the door to listen, and heard a low voice. Prance! By God, it was Prance. Still alive, at least. He banged on the door, and all fell silent within. “Open up!” he shouted, then lifted his booted foot and kicked the door. When this was of no avail, he kicked frantically at the doorknob until he shattered the lock, and went inside with his pistol in his hand, cocked and ready to fire. Evans came in behind him, silently praying for God’s mercy.
* * * *
“We’ll drop in and see what Reg and Corinne are up to,” Coffen said, as they drove home. They were surprised when the parlour maid answered the door. “G’day, Mr. Pattle. There’s nobody home. His lordship and Evans have gone pelting off in a great pucker.”
“The devil you say! Gone with Evans? Do you know where they’ve gone?”
“I couldn’t say. Prance said something to Evans before he and her ladyship left, and Evans told his lordship, but with Evans gone —Anyhow Ivy asked Mrs. Ballard what was up, and all she knows is that her ladyship and Sir Reginald went to call on a Mr. McRaney. When his lordship heard that, he took Evans with him and went flying off like a man possessed. I’m sure I don’t know where they went.”
Black just nodded. She didn’t know where they went. The poor lass couldn’t add two and two. Close to a moonling. Ever mindful of a butler’s duties, he said, “You’d best let Roberts know Evans is gone.”
“If you say so, Mr. Black, but he’s cleaning silver this morning. I didn’t know if I should disturb him. You’re the first ones that have come calling.”
“Certainly you should,” Black said severely. “A gentleman’s door is never left unattended.”
“Come along, Black,” Coffen hollered over his shoulder. He was already halfway to his waiting carriage.
Black rushed off after him. “I’d best take the ribbons,” he said. “This is no time to go astray.”
“I believe you’re right, Black. I’ll get on the box with you. We have to make plans. Fitz, get into the carriage. You can drive us back.”
A chastened Fitz got into the carriage, wondering how long he would be in Mr. Pattle’s employ, now that Black had taken over.
“Luten has learned something,” Coffen said. “He’s gone after Corinne, certainly. Why would he think she’d be in danger at McRaney’s place?”
“I can’t imagine, Mr. Pattle. Would there have been another murder there, I wonder?” He cracked the whip and the team went faster, faster, raising the ire of every carriage on the road and every pedestrian who watched the spectacle, cursing the Corinthians who used the public roads for race tracks.
When they reached their destination, they saw Corinne’s and Luten’s carriages standing at the curb and questioned Luten’s driver, who reported that Luten had gone charging into the house with his pistol in his hand, but he had no notion what had put his lordship into such a pelter.
“Room 302 is McRaney’s room,” Coffen said. They darted in and took the staircase two steps at a time. “Did you bring a pistol, Black? I forgot to grab mine. If I’d been sitting in the carriage instead of on the box I'd have thought of it.”
“I didn’t, Mr. Pattle. Shame on me.”
“Luten has his. Evans as well, I daresay.”
Evans’ presence here was like wormwood to Black. Much good that old fool would be in a brawl. When they reached the doorway, they stood a moment, listening. There wasn’t a sound from within. Black pointed to the door, which was marked with the unmistakable signs of having been kicked repeatedly. The door was slightly ajar, with the wood shattered where the lock had been kicked in. As they stood, looking a question at each other, a shot rang out.
* * * *
“Tie his hands behind his back,” Henderson ordered Lady Luten, as Prance reluctantly lay down.
“What shall I tie him with?” she asked, while her mind darted about wildly, looking for a way to rescue them. But with Prance on the floor and the round black muzzle of Henderson’s gun pointed at her face, she could think of nothing but the bullet that would come flying out of it if she made a wrong move.
Henderson looked about the room for something to bind Prance. Seeing nothing suitable, he angrily pulled off his cravat with one hand and threw it at her. The aim of his pistol was diverted for a moment.
Desperation inspired Prance to take the only action he could think of. He reached out, grabbed Henderson by the ankle and pulled as hard as he could, sending him off balance. Before he could get up off the floor, Henderson steadied himself and gave Reggie’s side a sharp kick that set his poor ribs into agonies of pain
“Try that again and you’re a dead man,” Henderson growled.
Corinne took the cravat and began tying it around Reggie’s wrists, taking care not to tie it too tightly. “Now you, into the bedroom,” he said to her when the job was done. He pointed the wicked pistol at her and nodded towards a door that led into the bedroom. She went, trembling, into the room, looking about for a weapon, anything she could use to defend herself. Henderson locked the door behind her. She immediately ran to the dresser and searched for a pistol. But it held only his shirts and socks.
Next she ran to the window, planning to open it and holler. It opened on a back alley, with not a soul in sight. Could she climb out and run for help? The window was difficult to raise. She got it up enough to stick her head out, and see it was too far to jump, and there was nothing to give her a foothold on the way down.
In desperation she picked up a boot, the heaviest object she could see, and stood at the door, trembling, listening, waiting. She could hear the low murmur of voices. Perhaps Reg was
trying to talk him out of killing them.
Then she heard a loud racket, as if Henderson had lost his temper and was wrecking his own flat. Or had Reg managed to get up? Oh it was impossible! And she couldn’t do a thing but stand by helplessly and listen. And wait. Wait for him to come for her.
Chapter Thirty-four
Henderson heard the two sets of feet pounding down the hall. That meant two more men to contend with. He could get one as he came in, but the other meanwhile would shoot him. He didn’t panic. He’d been in tight corners before. Without a moment’s hesitation he pulled Reggie up from the floor by his coat collar and used him for a shield.
When Luten stormed in with his pistol raised, he found it was pointing at Reggie, whose face was a mask of terror. He was aware of the form behind Reg and the pistol pointing at himself, but even before looking at the man’s face he looked around the room for Corinne. Thank God she wasn’t here. But where was she? She wasn’t in the carriage. Had she escaped and run for help? Had he already killed her?
Prance knew what he was looking for. “She’s in the bedroom, safe,” he managed to gasp. He looked past Luten to Evans — Evans? Was it possible he was hallucinating?
The news that Corinne was safe slowed the wild pounding of Luten’s heart, making it possible for him to think rationally. So this was the wily Martin. They were meeting face-to-face at last. He had made fools of them before, and he must be ready for one final trick.
For a moment, the room was deathly quiet, as the two men stood stiff as statues, each pointing a pistol at the other, each trying desperately to figure a way out of the impasse. Henderson could see he was outnumbered. Escaping with his life was the best he could hope for. Luten knew he couldn’t shoot Henderson with Prance standing right in front of him. Prance was obviously in pain. His face was ashen — there was no hope of help from him. He couldn’t expect any help from Evans, standing silent and motionless behind him. He was sorry he’d dragged him into this.
