Murder on Charing Cross Road (16 page)

But how was he supposed to do that? How would that investigation have differed from the one he had conducted? Hopley had inadvertently told him how they had got on to Black and recognized him at Long Acre. He had been at Bolton’s place with Coffen that morning, poking about for clues.

He was mortally ashamed that he had not spoken to the footman he had watching Morgrave’s place last night. In all the excitement it had completely slipped his mind. He’d do it the minute he got home. There was nothing for it but to follow Sir Edgar’s advice.

If there was anything to learn about Smoker, Black would learn it. The other immediate matter to look into was Long Acre, where Black had overheard the plans for last night’s meeting in the spinney. He felt these two little loose ends were very inadequate for unraveling the mystery. As to who had an opportunity to plant Prance’s purse in Morgrave’s pocket, how the devil was he to discover that? Morgrave wasn’t the sort who seldom left home. He was an active fellow with all sorts of friends.

A meeting of the Brigade was obviously in order. Four —
no, five heads were better than one. He’d hear what the admirable Black discovered about Smoker. Black, without knowing it, had just become a regular member of the Berkeley Brigade, and not the least member either.

“I fear the jacket you wore last night is beyond even my powers of resuscitation, Sir Reginald,”
Villier informed his master that afternoon, as he applied salve to Prance’s chafed wrists. “Between mud and grime and burrs and that sleeve that is half ripped out —"

“Throw it out,”
Reggie said. “I never want to see it again. It has too many hideous memories. I hate wearing a mended jacket in any case. That sleeve will never sit right. Weston must have another jacket ready by now. I trust he managed to put in those inner pockets in a way that doesn’t make the jacket bulge in front.”

“Fear not. This is the great Weston we are speaking of. The buckskin trousers have cleaned up well. After drying them, brushing off the dirt and applying a gentle emery pad to them, they’re as good as new. Pity you lost that lovely cane with the sword inside.”

“Oh that is replaceable. I shall have one made in ebony. Black is more dangerous looking, don’t you think? And we must fashion some sort of sock-like thing to hold agates. I told you about Black’s trick of putting them in his handkerchief. It was very useful. I wonder now if buckshot wouldn’t be more effective.”

“Oh never! Lead would absolutely
destroy
the sit of your jacket.”

“For the side pocket of my carriage, Villier. Naturally I wouldn’t carry such a cumbersome thing on my person. How about the boots? Are they salvageable?”

“No irreparable scuffs. Kelly’s boot-black and a good polishing with wool restored them good as new. We shall have to replace one of the tassels. It occurred to me that as Baron Wolfried enjoys unusual concealed weapons, we might do something with the tassels.”

Prance looked interested. “They’re too small for guns or knives.”

“Not too small to contain a poison pellet or two contained in little hollow baubles on the ends of the tassels. What do you think?”

“There would have to be some way to open the baubles. If the metal were really thin, it could be slit open with the tip of a knife. An interesting notion, Villier. I can just see Wolfried now, captured and facing torture and death . . . But no, he’s not the type to commit suicide. Still, it has interesting potential. We’ll work on it.”

He glanced out the window. “Is that Pattle I see darting into Luten’s place? I believe I’ll join him, see if he had any luck at the spinney. How he could
bear
to go back there after last night. .. You’ll make a copy of that note to Murray and post it? You can sign for me. He’s most eager to hear about my new novel. He’s
thrilled
with
my idea of a book about spies.”

“Consider it done. The book will certainly be another sensation. No way it could possibly be anything but hair-raising, with all these dangerous doings you’ve got yourself involved in,”
Villier said, tsking his disapproving admiration.

Prance had to use an ordinary malacca cane to hobble next door to Luten’s place. He found Corinne and Coffen in the rose salon, Coffen enjoying toast and coffee, which was no doubt his lunch. “Any luck at Long Acre?”
he asked.

Coffen handed him his snuffbox with the lid torn off. “I thought you might want to get this fixed. Looks like somebody tromped on it. Pity. It’s a pretty little thing. Next time you might put salt in it instead of pepper. I couldn’t see straight for ages.”

“Throw it out. It’s not worth repairing. I’m sorry about last night, but the idea was to temporarily incapacitate the enemy, you see.”

“I ain’t the enemy.”

“I said I’m sorry. I’ll think your suggestion over. There might be some other chemical powder I could use. Did you find anything else?”

“Just this,”
he said, holding out a dilapidated black touque. “It looks French. One of the Frenchies lost it in the brawl, I expect. Morgrave wouldn’t be caught dead in it.”

“We knew our attackers were French, so that’s not much help. No word from Luten yet, Corrie?”

“No, he didn’t expect to be home much before dinner. And Black will be gone till mid-afternoon at least.”

“Then I’ll go home and make a few notes on last night’s doings —
for my new novel, you know.”
He could no longer keep the wonderful secret to himself. “It’s to be a story about spies,”
he announced. “All these recent doings have inspired me. Murray is quite excited.”

“It sounds dandy,”
Coffen said. “I won’t have to read this one since I already know about it.”

“It won’t be
just
about the recent doings,”
Prance informed him. “I’ll dress it up, invent a dashing hero.”

“Don’t make Luten recognizable,”
Corrie said. “He’d hate it.”

Prance could only stare at such —
well, impudence was the word that came to mind. As if he would make
Luten
the hero! Baron Wolfried would be based on an idealized version of himself. Who had been robbed and beaten after all, and still continued to pursue the villains, cracked ribs and all? Whose home had been vandalized? “Fear not, my dear. The hero is nothing like Luten,”
he said in a thin voice.

“I hope there’s going to be a girl in it,”
was Coffen’s comment. “Having a girl in it helped your gothic.”

“Oh yes, you must give us a heroine to rescue the hero when he gets himself tied to a tree,”
Corinne said, laughing.

Prance could only stare, speechless, at this outrage. The minx actually thought she and Luten were his main characters!

“We’ll never live that down,”
Coffen said with a shake of his head.

Prance left, trying to conceal that he was in a snit. But as he went home, he pondered what woman —
not a girl —
would be the heroine in his
dramatis personae.
Prance, with his love of the theatre, thought of his novels as plays waiting to be performed.

He had heard rumours that Drury Lane wanted to dramatize his gothic novel. They hadn’t approached him yet. He’d wait for them to make the first move. It wouldn’t be difficult to stage
Shadows on the Wall.
Much of the action was set at St. Justin’s Abbey. As for the tiger, that would be no problem either. Kemble had managed to put elephants and sixteen horses mounted by Spahis on stage in
Bluebeard.
It had been a great success too, although Prance personally had thought it a travesty. More circus than drama. Still, it was only one tiger, not a menagerie. They’d have to keep it on a concealed leash, of course. It wouldn’t do to have him maul Lorraine, the leading lady.

Corinne finally got rid of Coffen by telling him she really must go upstairs and see how Mrs. Ballard was doing. Mrs. Ballard was spending too much time in her room alone.

“Give her my regards,”
he said, taking the hint and arising. “I’ll just toddle along home and see what Cook has in mind for dinner.”

* * * *

Luten was in no good mood when he returned. “What had Hopley to say?”
his wife asked.

“He was too polite to say what he thought — that I’m a jackass and have been wasting time on the wrong man.”

“What, you mean Morgrave is not a spy?”
she asked. “Oh I
am
glad.”
When he stared at this thoughtless speech, she added, ‘It’s just that Samantha is enceinte, you know, and it seemed a shame if the baby should come into the world with such a cloud over him. I like Samantha. But what about the code book I saw in their dressing room?”

“He works for Hopley,”
Luten said, blushing. “That’s what comes of Hopley’s sitting on all his secrets, as if he didn’t trust us.”

“That’s very foolish of him.”

“There is a reason. If one of his men is taken, he doesn’t want them to be able to give the French any information.”

“As if they would!”
she scoffed. Luten thought it better not to frighten her by mentioning how such information might be extracted.

“But if not Morgrave, then who —"

“That’s what we have to find out. No word from Black?”

“Not yet. And Coffen had no luck at the spinney either. He found a black touque and Reggie’s snuffbox.”

“That’s a big help. I’ll tell Evans to notify the others there’ll be a meeting here this evening. Put on your thinking cap, my dear, we’re starting over from the beginning. And this time we can’t afford to make any mistakes.”

He feared she was going to begin pestering him about the dangers of his work again. To distract her, he said, “So Samantha is enceinte, eh? That’s good news. They haven’t been married much longer than we have.”
He looked at her, a question in his eyes.

“Not yet, Luten,”
she said. “You’ll be the first to know, I promise you.”

“Shall we get to work on it?”
he suggested, taking her hand to draw her up.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,”
she said. “Evans tells me Molton wants to speak to you. He seems to be quite upset.”

Molton was the footman who had been watching Morgrave last night. “I’d best have a word with him,”
he said. “I’ll join you shortly.”

Evans was asked to send Molton to Luten’s study. He came in, wearing a black eye and a bruise on his cheek.

“Molton! What happened to you?”
he asked in alarm.

“I got beat up last night, your lordship. I was watching Morgrave’s place like you said.”

“Did he go out?”

“I didn’t see him. I was knocked flat out by a couple of men wearing masks. They trussed me up and when I come to I didn’t know where I was. I worked on my ropes and towards dawn I managed to work myself free. I started walking and after walking in circles for ages I met a fellow who told me I was in an alley off Drury Lane. So I walked home to tell you, but you’d left.”

“What time were you knocked out, Molton?”

“I don’t have a watch, sir, but it wasn’t much past ten. I was keeping track of time by church bells. Ten had just struck a few minutes before they got me.”

Luten stood a moment, nonplussed. “I see,”
he said in a hollow voice. “You’d best go to bed, Molton. Do you need a doctor?”

“I’m all right. Cook gave me a headache powder.”

“I’m sorry this happened, Molton. You take the rest of the day off.”
Not knowing how else to recompense his footman, he gave him a guinea, which brought a smile to his face.

“Next time I’ll keep an eye behind me as well as on the door,”
he said. “The pity of it is I couldn’t tip Buckley the clue. He’d already left when I got home. He was to replace me at dawn, you recall. P’raps he’ll be safe in the daylight.”

Luten just nodded and Molton left. He went into his study to ponder what he had just heard. Why had Molton been got out of the way if it was not to conceal that Morgrave was leaving? The time was right too. Ten o’clock —
time to get to the spinney and prepare the attack. Hopley was wrong. Morgave
was
the spy. And it was even worse than he thought. He was actually employed by Hopley, working on highly secret documents. And Hopley wouldn’t believe it. The Brigade would have to give him incontrovertible evidence.

Luten forgot all about Corinne, waiting for him upstairs. He sat, trying to figure out how Molton’s and Hopley’s stories fit together. If the Frenchies knew he suspected Morgrave and had set up the meeting in the spinney, then might they not have removed Molton to increase suspicion of Morgrave? That could explain it. Or Morgrave could be guilty. He had to consider both possibilities. Meanwhile he had discontinued the watch on Morgrave, since the French were aware of it and taking their own precautions.

Black had still not returned when the group met in Luten’s study after dinner to learn the gist of his visit with Hopley and Molton’s attack. They all sat, stunned into silence, but when they finally began speaking, it was clear they believed the French had removed Molton to make them think Morgrave was guilty. And perhaps they were right.

“But if Hopley says Morgrave is not our spy,”
Prance said, “then we are at pointe non plus. He was our only clue.”

“Hopley mentioned there are a few other points,”
Luten said. “We must work to discover who put your purse in Morgrave’s pocket for one thing.”

“I wish you luck of that,”
Prance said. “We’ve no idea when it was put in. It’s not a bulky purse that one would notice right away. Anyone might have done it. He belongs to more than one club, and goes about to parties and plays and things.”

“He don’t wear a blue afternoon jacket to parties and plays,”
Coffen pointed out. “And he don’t seem to go out that much during the day. Corrie said he was at home two times she called on his wife. Can’t we ask him about it? Mean to say, if he didn’t put it there himself, he must be wondering how it got there. Pity it didn’t have your name on it, Prance, and he’d have returned it to you. McRaney mentioned Morgrave usually goes to Arthur’s in the evening, but we know he drops in some afternoons as we met him there in the afternoon. I managed to get into his pocket to search it, if you recall, so it could have been done there all right.”