Murder Is Come Again (3 page)

They met on Nile Street at half past ten the next morning. Prance looked at the house, he looked at the Brithelmston Tavern next door, where a few undesirables were already hanging about, and shook his head. What would the place be like after dark? “You couldn’t pay me to live here. Wretched neighbourhood. Sell it,” he said.

“That’s what I thought myself,” Coffen agreed.

Luten looked along the street to the other few respectable houses and said, “Let’s have a look inside.” Black drew out the key, they went in and had a good look around. When they met again in the main room, Corinne said, “I think the place has possibilities. The main room is a good size, a pretty fireplace, and has that nice chandelier. Someone’s definitely been living here, though, and whoever it was was a wretched housekeeper. Mice are running riot in the larder.”

Black shook his head. “I had a word with Weir this morning after your hint last night, Luten. He never rented the place.”

“Well, someone’s been here recently,” Corinne said. “There were glasses in the kitchen that still had some liquid in the bottom. It would have dried over all that time. Furthermore, he left the back door ajar, and half a bottle of gin in the sink.”

Black said, “There was no bottle in the sink yesterday, nor was the back door unlocked. I tried it before we left. That back door lock isn’t much good. I could open it myself with a hairpin. Might be wise to get new locks on the doors, Mr. Pattle. A careless squatter like that, he could burn the place down.”

With a thought of the neighbouring tavern, Prance said, “Very likely some derelict from that gin mill next door got foxed and was looking for a place to sleep it off.”

“Well, if you aren’t interested in using the place yourself, and with that gin palace next door, it might be as well to sell the house,” Luten said reluctantly.

That settled the matter and with a last look around they prepared to leave. Prance claimed an interest in visiting the local gardens. Corinne and Luten planned a drive in the country, and Coffen said he was eager to give his grays a good run. It didn’t need saying that Black would accompany him. Coffen was still learning to handle the frisky team, and Black was handy at rescuing him from difficulties. But first the admirable Black arranged to have new locks put on the doors of the house.

When they returned from their drive, they were cheered to be handed a note at the front desk asking for an appointment to look over the house advertised in the journal.

“The sooner the better. Tell them tomorrow at ten,” Coffen said.

“I’d like to have a word with an estate agent first. See what he thinks you ought to ask. Luten had no idea.” Black took another look at the note. “It says any time after three in the afternoon. It’s from a Mrs. Filmore. I’ll say three-thirty. If we get another interested party we’ll have them both come at that time. A little competition will urge them to make a deal on the spot.”

“Clever thinking, Black, but between you and me and the bedpost, I’d let it go for an old song.”

“If you came with me, Mr. Pattle, the deal could be done on the spot since you’re not fussy as to the price. Have it over with. “

“I’ll do it,” Coffen said. “That’ll give me the morning to exercize the grays while you talk to an estate agent. But first I’d like another look at the place myself. I’ll throw in the furnishings, but first I’d like to see if there’s anything worth rescuing. Family silver or what not.”

“I’ll go with you,” Black said at once.

They were surprised to see a young woman at the door, seeking entrance when they arrived. “You’d be here about buying the house,” Coffen said. While he gave her charms a thorough examination, Black noticed she was the class of person he expected, but young to be buying a house. Only in her early twenties. Obviously not out of the top drawer, though pretty enough. Reddish curls, a round face, a boldly tilted nose. Her gown was flamboyant and her straw bonnet was weighted down with an excess of flowers.

“Buying?” she said. “Oh I couldn’t buy it. I heard the new owner was here and came to see if you needed a housemaid.”

“Oh, no thankee,” Coffen said. “I’m selling the house.”

“Who to?” she asked in a sharp, almost an angry voice.

“I don’t know yet. I just put it up for sale today.”

“The reason I wanted the job,” she said, trying a smile, “I grew up here. My ma used to work for Mr. Bolger a few years ago. It’d be like coming home, you might say.”

“As I said, I’m not planning to live here.”

“But till you sell you’ll need someone to clean it up. I could work cheap, and my fellow, Henry, he could do the work outside. It would save us rent, you see. We could stay here as there’d be no one living here. We could do other part time jobs, so we could work for next to nothing.”

Coffen disliked to refuse a pretty young girl, but Black was eager to be rid of her. “What would be the point?” he said. “It would only be for a week or two. Mr. Pattle’s planning to sell right away.”

She frowned, then said reluctantly, “Mind what I said. If you need someone, you can reach me at the Seaside Tourist Shop. Just ask for Flora.”

“Yes, fine,” Coffen said, and she left.

“Persistent little thing,” Black said, unlocking the door. “I wonder how she knew you were here. Brighton’s hardly a village, where everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

“Very likely Luten’s arrival was announced in the journals. We might have got caught up in the tail wind.”

“And how did she know it needed cleaning up? She said she could clean it up.”

“She has the use of her eyes,” was Coffen’s reply.

Prance invited Coffen and Black to attend a play with him and the Lutens that evening at the Theatre Royal, but Black wanted some time to himself to “get his bearings,” as he called it. He was a stranger in town, and wanted to find out where the demi-monde lived and who was who in that respect in town. A tourist town like Brighton was bound to have an active criminal element — cut-purses, pick-pockets and thieves of a higher order, as well as crooked gaming houses. He didn’t want to get cheated in any way himself, and should the Berkeley Brigade run into any little trouble, they were used to turning to him for help.

“Since this is my first trip to Brighton in decades, I plan to just stroll about and get my bearings,” Black replied. “You go along with Sir Reginald, Mr. Pattle.”

It didn’t take much urging. Coffen was a devotee of the theatre, especially the Green Room, where one could consort with the actresses. “I will then,” he said at once. “I’ll see you back here later.”

Black saw them off, and decided as good a place as any to begin his investigation was the tavern beside Mr. Pattle’s house. With this low destination in view, he changed into his rougher clothes, put his pistol in his pocket and sneaked out the back door so the hotel staff and patrons wouldn’t see him.

The tavern was a shabby two story building of ancient vintage and no discernible architectural style. Where the original wood had perished, it had been patched up with plaster and brick. Sheets of what looked like rusty tin overlaid part of the original thatch roof. He saw, when he ducked his head to enter the low doorway, that the place was enough to frighten the Grenadiers, but it didn’t frighten him. It was like going home to see the grimy floor, covered in sodden sawdust, to smell the rancid air, to hear the curses.

In darkened corners men were shoving and punching each other about, others sat smiling the smile of the inebriated and playing cards, and a few men too tired and disinterested to look up from their pint when someone jarred their arm just sat and drank. He recognized Mr. Weir in a far corner, but Mr. Weir was communing with what looked like a bottle of brandy and was in no shape to recognize him. He wouldn’t have recognized himself in a mirror.

Black went to the stand-up bar where a sober giant of a fellow bald as a cannon ball and with a soiled apron wrapped around his bulging stomach was keeping a sharp eye on his customers. This was obviously the publican. Black ordered a pint, slid an extra shilling along the bar and said, “Where would a man get an honest game of cards in this town? I’m visiting from London. Unofficially, you might say.” This was immediately understood by the publican to mean he was wanted by the law and established them on friendly terms.

“Not a Captain Sharp? Charley wouldn’t thank me for siccing that on him.”

“I never deal a shaved card, or accept one if dealt to me.”

“What kind of stakes are you after?” the man asked.

“I can’t afford to lose more than a monkey.”

“Try Charley’s place, out the Dyke Road. Just beyond the cemetery, on the left. A half-timbered place, leans to the left. He keeps a red light in the front window.”

“Will I be let in?”

“Tell him Catchpole sent you, Mr... ?”

“Smith,” Black said. Catchpole smiled and nodded, recognizing the proper answer.

“If you’re alone in town and after a bit of the other, there’s Nel’s place.” Over three or four pints, Black learned that the Dyke Road was where you went for a good time, or to meet the class of people he was interested in. Black was enjoying himself and finding the man such a gold mine of information that he needn’t go farther to learn what he wanted to know. Catchpole seemed happy to have someone he could have a reasonable conversation with. Black held up his end by informing Catchpole where to find similar amenities in London, should he ever find himself there. Their talk was interrupted from time to time for Catchpole to break up a fight and in a few cases eject unruly customers.

“Who’s the embalmed old gent in the corner?” Black asked. It lingered in his mind that Weir might have diddled Mr. Pattle in the matter of renting out the house on Nile Street.

“That’s Mr. Weir, my best customer,” Catchpole replied. “An out-of-work lawyer that lives abovestairs. Not much harm in him, or much good.”

The evening sped by, as it does when you’re having a pleasant time, and when Black drew out his old turnip watch, he was surprised to see it was after midnight. “I’d best be toddling along,” he said. No sooner were the words uttered than the front door flew open. A sudden hush fell over the room. In his astonishment he thought his speech had caused the hush, until he saw a masked figure dressed all in black flashing across the tavern, making for a door. When he threw the door open, Black saw it led to the kitchen.

Catchpole, like the others, was riveted to the spot in silence, his whole posture alert. The front door burst open again and a man in a blue jacket barged in. “Where is he?” he demanded. “Don’t say he’s not here! I saw him come in.” He pulled the nearest customer up by the coat collar and demanded, “Where did he go? Which way?”

“Who?” the victim asked, his face the picture of innocence.

“Mad Jack, that’s who!” The man shrugged. The newcomer looked all around. “Any of you — where did he go?” He was answered by blank stares. “Catchpole — you stay here. Lock the door and don’t let anyone out. I’m searching the place.”

“Certainly, constable,” Catchpole replied with mock meekness, “though I can’t imagine you’ll find him, for I’ll swear an affeydavey he never come in here.” He went and locked the front door while the Revenueman hastened to the kitchen. After a few scuffling sounds he was heard running upstairs to search the few bedrooms. Then he returned, read them all a stiff lecture about the dire consequences of aiding and abetting criminals. His departure was marred by having to struggle with the locked door as he left. Once he was gone, bedlam broke out louder than before.

“The next pint is on the house, boys,” Catchpole called, to reward them for their temporary blindness. Those who could still walk surged to the bar.

“What was that all about?” Black asked, when the bedlam had settled down.

“That was Mr. Ellis, the second most incompetent constable in England.”

“No, but the masked fellow in black.”

“Oh that’s a great mystery, Mr. Smith. We have a ghost highwayman hereabouts, called Mad Jack. He can disappear at will.”

“Out the back door?”

“That’s part of the mystery. There is no back door. It fell off years ago and the opening was bricked up.”

“Does this disappearing act usually occur here, at your tavern?”

“Right under our noses, according to the constable! Comes in and vanishes into thin air.”

Black gave an appreciative chuckle. “That’s quite a stunt. How does he work it?”

Catchpole just smiled. “That’s the mystery of it. We don’t know. No one knows. He just vanishes — if he’s ever here at all, that is. As I said, I’ve never seen him.”

“Why do they call him mad?”

“It seems he has a fearful temper. A stranger here one night told the Revenueman he’d seen him, and was beat up some awful when he left. Most of what we know about him we get from his victims. One of them, it seems, was carrying a pair of swords and challenged Mad Jack to a duel. Guess who won? Even the victim admitted he was a wonder, fought like a man possessed. You don’t want to cross a fellow like that. If you should ever happen to see him, I mean. Myself, I never have.” He picked up a dirty rag and swiped it across the dirty counter.

“Well,” Black said, laughing, “you’ve got the better of me there, Catchpole. I’ve never seen the likes of that in London.” He frowned, then said, “Is his mount a ghost as well? A highwayman don’t work on foot. What happens to his mount?”

Catchpole just shrugged. “It must be a ghost. It vanishes as well. It’s an odd thing. It is.”

“Does it happen often?”

“No, not often. About once a month. You were just lucky to be here tonight.”

“I’m half afraid to leave,” Black said. “He won’t kill me if I try to leave, will he?”

“You didn’t tell the Constable you saw him. You should be safe. Come back, Mr. Smith. It’s been a pleasure talking to a fellow who can hold his pint.”

“I will, and if any nosy Parker from London should come asking after me, you haven’t seen me. I’m a ghost, like Mad Jack.” With a nod and a wink, Black left, wondering about Mad Jack’s disappearing act and Catchpole’s part in it. He must be well paid to hand out free drinks to that crowd for keeping quiet.