Let's Talk of Murder (22 page)

If she ran, where would she go? With Fogg dead, she had no known friends in London. He dispatched a footman to her home in Kent, to make discreet inquiries around the village as to whether she had returned there. If she wasn’t there, she might very well be roaming the streets of London. A glance out the window showed him a world wrapped in mist. One of London’s autumn fogs was quickly settling in, to make finding her even more difficult.

He dashed a note to Townsend at Bow Street, giving Fanny’s description, and asked him to put the Bow Street Runners on the lookout for her. If found, she was to be brought to Berkeley Square. Corinne’s house would have to be used until this matter was settled. It wouldn’t do to put that dasher of a Fanny up with a bachelor.

When a crested carriage drew up in front of Corinne’s house and Byron limped to her door, Luten felt as if a rock had settled on his heart. He stood frozen, with his blood pounding like a drum in his ears. He told himself it was foolish of him, they were just going to a party. Corinne was a lady of good morals. One date didn’t mean they were having an affair. But Lord Byron! Luten always thought of himself as a temperate man, with his passions under control. But he could scarcely control the impulse to run out and knock Byron’s teeth down his throat. He could even understand how one man could kill another. There was murder in his heart.

He did succumb to his second impulse, which was to throw pride to the winds and follow them. As soon as they left, Coffen scooted across the street and into Luten’s waiting, unmarked carriage, as agreed. Luten sent Evans darting out to hold the carriage and followed behind him as quickly as his ankle allowed. When Coffen opened the door to see what he wanted, Luten climbed in.

Coffen took one look at his expression and said, “I hope you ain’t planning anything foolish, Luten. If you’ve got a pistol, give it to me.”

“I don’t have a pistol! I merely decided to go out myself this evening. I’m bored with being cooped up for days and nights on end. And really my ankle is feeling remarkably better.” Even as he spoke, he felt a searing jab of pain caused by his rush to the carriage. The eager eye he kept on Byron’s carriage gave the lie to his reason for coming.

“They’re sticking to the residential streets,” Coffen said. “Just taking in some party. I hope you brought your invitations with you.”

Of course he hadn’t. They sat in a silver salver in his saloon. “Sefton’s!” he exclaimed, when Byron’s carriage drew up at a mansion with flares lit in front and two footmen to help the ladies alight. “Do you have an invitation, Pattle?”

“I do. I brought them all. Here, help me find it.” He handed Luten a stack of cards, some of them a month old. They couldn’t read them in the darkness of the carriage and had to open the window to read by the dim illumination from the flares. “Ah, here we are. Mr. Pattle and guest. You’re my guest. Let’s go.”

“No. We’ll drive around the block a few times. We don’t want to arrive on their coattails.”

“True, no point giving her the satisfaction of announcing we followed them.” He pulled the draw string and gave the order. The carriage lurched forward.

Luten was already having second thoughts. “Perhaps I shouldn’t go,” he said, in an uncertain voice.

“Faint heart never won fair hind,” Coffen informed him. “You’ve been chewing your pride all day. It’s time to swallow it once for all. We’re going in, and I don’t want you glaring and glowering at her either. Just act civil. You might sound Byron out on that portfolio business as an excuse to approach them.”

“We’ll stop in for a moment. I can’t stay. I’m expecting a call from Townsend.”

“What about?” Coffen asked, his interest piqued.

“I asked him to have his men keep an eye out for Fanny. She has no friends in town. I wouldn’t want to think she’s out on the streets alone at night.” They both peered out at the gathering fog.

“No, nor would I,” Coffen replied. “Clare patrols the streets looking for girls. One of us ought to be keeping an eye on Clare. P’raps he’ll be at this do.”

On the second circuit of the block, the carriage drew up in front of Sefton’s again and they alit. Luten had no trouble gaining admittance. He was well known in society. Lady Sefton welcomed him back to what she called “the world of the living.”

“Your friend Lady deCoventry is here somewhere. Just look for a crowd and you’ll find her. She came with Byron.”

Coffen asked if Lord Clare was here, and Lady Sefton told him he hadn’t arrived yet, but she expected him. The crowd she spoke of was not hard to find. Byron had not been allowed to proceed far into the room before he was swarmed. Luten peered over a few shoulders and caught a view of Corinne’s pale face, standing next to him. She looked not only bored, but in a bad humor at the crushing she was being subjected to.

When she glanced up and saw Luten looking at her, she thought it must be one of those mirages she had read about, that desert travelers experienced. Luten could not possibly be here. He was at home nursing his ankle. There had been a carriage in front of his house when she left, so he must be working with some of the politicians. But he looked awfully real. Especially that sardonic smile, and the dismissing way he turned aside after witnessing her discomfort. This had been a wretched idea. She should never have come.

Then the vision was gone, as quickly as it had appeared. The music began, and several of Byron’s devotees deserted him for the dance floor. He turned to her and said, “Now aren’t you sorry for poor me? It’s not all roses, being the season’s pet freak. I do apologize. Would you like some punch? Or dance, if you feel like it. I can fend for myself. I see Luten has come after all. I fear friend Prance is having some sport at my expense. Shall I ask Luten to join us? I see he’s looking daggers at me, and will, I fear, be speaking or possibly throwing some if I keep you to myself.”

“Is he really here?” she asked, looking around.

He was not only at the party, he was approaching her, but looking at Byron. His expression was not at all savage, though a certain rictus about the lips hinted at the effort it cost him to smile. Her throat went dry and her breaths came fast and shallow. He was beside them. He honored her with a stiff bow before turning to speak to Byron in the drawling voice he used when he was furious and wished to hide it.

After a few words of greeting, Luten said, “I know this is not the time to talk business, Byron, but your name has come up with Grey and Grenville regarding a ministership without portfolio, should the Whigs be asked to take over the government. Will you think it over and call on me soon to discuss it?”

Byron looked startled, almost frightened at the notion. “I am honored,” he said. “Yes, I’ll think about it. But do you really think the Old Lady of Manchester Square will allow Prinney to kick the Tories out? The clubs are betting ten to one against it.”

“They’ve been wrong before,” Luten said with a confident smile, not allowing his eyes to stray to Corinne.

She ransacked her brain for something to say, something that was politely civil without giving Luten the idea she was trying to ingratiate him. Nothing occurred to her.

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you soon, then,” Luten said, and immediately bowed and turned away. She hadn’t said a single word to him, nor he to her. Just a barely civil bow of recognition.

Her head began throbbing. Some other group joined them, making it impossible to get away to the refreshment parlor for a glass of wine. What a foolish idea this had been. Luten wasn’t a bit jealous. He didn’t care a groat that she was out with the most dashing man in London. All he cared about was politics.

She kept an eye on the door, waiting for Prance’s arrival. She would tell Byron she had a headache and ask Prance to take her home. As the throng around the poet swelled, she allowed herself to be nudged to the edge. It was there that Coffen found her half an hour later.

“I’m leaving, if you want to come with me,” he said.

“How can I leave?”

“How can you stay? Something’s come up. Something big.”

“What?” The word came out in a loud voice. Had something happened to Luten? He shouldn’t have tried to walk on that ankle. “It’s not Luten!”

“No, it’s Fanny Rowan. She’s been killed. Luten asked Townsend to look for her. He found her body and has been darting to all the parties looking for us to tell us. We’re leaving. Are you coming or not?”

“Yes, I’m coming.” The crowd around Byron was impenetrable. While Coffen got her wrap, she left word with Lady Sefton that something had come up and she had to leave, if she would be kind enough to apologize to Lord Byron for her. They darted out into the foggy night, to the waiting carriage.

Stepping out the door was like walking into a cloud. The mist had deepened to a fog that touched the face like cold steam, clammy, clinging. No light from window or carriage was distinguishable, but only suggested by a hazy glow in the vast earth-bound cloud that covered London like a counterpane. The houses on either side of the street were invisible, and the stark branches of trees were softened to a silver blur. An occasional nimbus bobbing through the lower atmosphere suggested the presence of link-boys.

Fanny’s death put all concerns of Luten and her rift with him out of Corinne’s mind. It made her feel even worse that she had never really liked Fanny. How harshly she had judged the girl, begrudging her a few used gowns. What young girl didn’t want pretty gowns?

“How did it happen? When?” she asked, as the coach proceeded at a wary pace into the night. She sat on the banquette beside Coffen, but directed her questions to both her companions.

“We’re not certain the victim is Fanny, but it sounds distressingly like her,” Luten said coolly. “Townsend says the body of a young woman was pulled from the Thames this morning. They assumed she was a suicide, but upon examining the body, they found a bullet wound in her chest. Coffen has volunteered to go and identify her.”

Luten was relieved that the job did not fall to his lot. Any death was bad enough, the death of a young person was worse, and the brutal murder of a young woman was the worst of all. A dark rage grew in him to think of it. And Fanny had been his main hope of discovering Fogg’s murderer. Very likely that was why her cold, wet body was now awaiting burial. He felt a pang, too, for her father, who was bound to feel a heavy burden of guilt for having sent her off to wicked London.

In the same tone, he continued, “I haven’t seen Fanny myself; I can’t identify her. Coffen will take us to Berkeley Square first.”

Of course it would have made more sense for Luten to go with Coffen while he identified the body, leaving Corinne at the party. They could hardly take a lady to the morgue. But it made such an excellent pretext to detach her from Byron that Luten had opted for this course when he and Coffen were discussing the logistics. All this was perfectly clear to Corinne, who went along with it, pretending not to find it odd. She read in it a hint of Luten’s continuing interest in her.

“Had she been dead long?” she asked.

“For several hours, apparently. Townsend thinks she was already dead when she was thrown in the Thames. He’s seen enough corpses to know the signs.”

“I expect he killed her last night after he got her away from the Morgate Home and has been waiting until dark to pitch her body in the river,” Coffen said.

A shudder shook Corinne, beginning deep inside her. In her mind’s eye she saw Fanny’s limp body, thrust into a dark closet. That was where the first corpse she had ever seen had been hidden. The victim was a theatrical wardrobe mistress who had been strangled and left behind a curtain that acted as her closet in her shabby little room.

“We don’t actually know that Clare killed her,” Luten pointed out, still in that unemotional voice. How could he be so detached? Was he so obsessed with politics that the life of one unimportant girl didn’t matter to him? That was unlike Luten. “We haven’t a single shred of evidence against him, only the rumor from Byron of what went on at that house in Lambeth.”

They discussed it until they arrived at Berkeley Square. Corinne and Luten were now faced with a tricky situation. Did she go into her own house, Luten to his? Should she invite him to wait for Coffen’s return at her place? They would both want to hear what he had to say, and really she didn’t want to be alone. The carriage stopped in front of Luten’s house, the coachman let down the step and they alit. She waited, thinking he might suggest that she go in with him. He could probably use her assistance.

“Can I help you?” she asked Luten.

“I can make it to the door, thank you,” he said, ignoring her outstretched hand. “Coffen, you’ll see the countess home?”

Corinne felt a surge of anger at this curt dismissal, and calling her countess, too. “Let me know what happens, Coffen,” she said. “I shall be waiting up, whatever hour you return.”

The four of them, Corinne, Luten, Coffen and the coachman were standing in the street, enveloped in fog, when Prance came running out of his house next door. He had been waiting for his carriage, saw them and could not resist the temptation to discover immediately what was happening.

Corinne had left with Byron. Prance didn’t know Luten had left at all. He had missed his departure. Why was Luten using his unmarked carriage? Had he gone tearing off after Corinne and Byron? Was there a duel in the offing? Would he be asked to act as anyone’s second? What a coup to be Byron’s second in a duel with Luten! His head reeled with dramatic possibilities as he hurried forward to join them.

“Fanny’s been murdered,” Coffen announced, even before he was asked.

“Murdered! Good God!”

“I’m off to identify the body,” Coffen said. “Do you want to come with me, Reg? You’ve seen her as well.”

“Not I! I wouldn’t sleep for a week.” He turned to Luten. “Where shall the rest of us go to discuss it? Your place, Luten? It’s closer. You’re not used to walking much yet.” His tone was an invitation to explanation, which was not forthcoming. “Or– perhaps my place? I’ve called for my carriage. I should tell my butler to send it away when it comes.”