Let's Talk of Murder (9 page)

She looked at them with frank blue eyes and said in a girlish voice, but with an air of pique, “I don’t know you. Why do you want to see me?”

“Have a seat, m’dear,” Coffen said, rising and showing her to one of the hard chairs. “We don’t want to harm you. In fact, we want to help, if we can. We’re here to ask you a few questions about Henry Fogg.” Her face went blank, as if he had suddenly begun speaking Latin or Greek.

“You have heard of his death?” Corinne asked.

“Yes, I heard.”

“Who told you?” Coffen asked.

She turned from one to the other as they spoke. She gave Coffen a mutinous glare. “I read it in the journal, didn’t I?”

“If you say so. I thought you might know who did him in.”

“No. I don’ t know anything about it. It has nothing to do with me.”

“We thought it might, you see, because of your—er, situation,” Coffen said.

“Because I’m enceinte, you mean,” she said, dropping her eyes demurely. “I don’t blame Henry for that. I don’t blame anyone. It was my fault.” Her head lifted and she said in a quiet but not humble or regretful voice, “I listened to the temptation of Satan.”

“A thing like this is the fault of two people,” Coffen said gently. “Don’t take all the blame yourself. It’s Henry’s as well. Mostly Henry’s, I daresay.”

Fanny cast a long, sideways look at him from her big blue eyes. Corinne had a distinct impression the girl was acting. The gaze she languished on Coffen was far from innocent, with just the hint of a satisfied smile forming at the corners of her lips.

“I didn’t say it was Henry who did it,” she said. “I have a passionate nature that I can’t always control, but with God’s help, I am trying.” The eyelids fluttered down for a moment. Then they lifted again, and she said, “I don’t believe Henry’s murder had anything to do with me or my situation. He had many enemies, you know. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he was–not a very nice man.”

“What enemies?” Coffen barked. Fanny drew her bottom lip between her little white teeth and looked frightened.

“I don’t know! I don’t know anything about it!” she said, flustered now. “But if you think my Papa killed him, well, he would never hurt a flea. And all my friends now follow the teaching of Reverend Morgate, and he abhors violence.”

“How about your cousin Robert?” he asked.

“Robert Rowan?” She looked stunned at the suggestion. “Good gracious, what would it matter to him? He cares nothing for me. I only met the man once, at grandpa’s funeral a dozen years ago. He and Papa don’t speak, because of Grandpa’s will. So you see, Henry’s murder has nothing to do with me.” After a moment’s silence, she said in a different tone, “Would you like some tea? We can ring for tea when we’re allowed a visitor. They serve little cakes with it, like a tea party,” she said, smiling like a child.

Corinne sensed that Fanny wanted the tea herself. She could still pity the girl, despite her cunning way. She was young, and the papa who “wouldn’t hurt a flea” had not hesitated to cast his own daughter out of the house. “By all means, let us have tea.”

Fanny pulled a bell chord and a young girl in the familiar gray outfit appeared. This inmate had dark hair and a pale, classically proportioned face that would have been beautiful, but for the harried expression it wore. She looked frightened as she bobbed a curtsey. She didn’t look a day over fifteen. Fanny gave the order, the girl bobbed another curtsey and left without uttering a word.

“Who is that?” Corinne asked.

“That’s Beth Kilmer. She’s new here. An orphan, I believe. I don’t know much about her. She doesn’t live in the annex, though she’s not really a commoner.”

“The annex? What is that?” Corinne asked. Fanny’s last remark suggested the girls from a higher class were segregated from the “common” girls.

“That’s where we go when we’ve proved to be good workers,” Fanny said, but she said it in a rehearsed way that didn’t change Corinne’s mind. “We’re allowed a little more freedom than the newcomers. We can have a candle until nine o’clock for reading.” She nodded to the Bible she had set aside. “And for sewing, of course. We make all our own uniforms. If you have any gowns you’re through with, milady, it would be kind of you to give them to me.”

Corinne looked alarmed. “But surely you wouldn’t be allowed to wear them!”

“Oh no! We have a bazaar at Christmas to raise funds for the Home. We make things to sell,” she said. “Mostly handkerchiefs and tea towels, but with such fine stuff as a lady wears, we could make cushions or perhaps shawls or table runners to sell to the parishioners who come to the sale.”

Corinne nodded her approval. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s dashed clever of you, Miss Rowan,  Coffen said, smiling at Fanny as if he were the proud papa of a prodigy. Or worse—as if he were a beau!

Beth brought the tea and little cakes. As she placed them carefully on the table, Corinne noticed some bruises on her forearms. She also noticed, when she left, that she walked with a slight limp. “What is the matter with her?” she asked Fanny.

“I believe she fell downstairs yesterday, but she didn’t lose the baby.” Like Fanny, Beth’s condition was not yet apparent.

They talked about the home while they had their tea. Seeing that Fanny was enjoying the cakes, Coffen restrained his lusty appetite and ate only half of them. Fanny was loud in Doctor Harper’s praise. “Doctor Harper is like a papa to us. Much nicer than Mrs. Bruton,” she added, with a certain sting in her tone that suggested that dame was no favorite with the girls.

Coffen tried again to learn something about Henry and who his enemies might be, and just what Fanny meant by saying he was “not a nice man,” but she just shook her head firmly.

She adopted a pious expression and said chidingly, “It’s not nice to gossip, Mr. Pattle.”

The return of Byron and Prance brought the private talk to a conclusion. Prance darted over to meet Fanny. After one speculative, lingering look at Byron, Fanny saw that Mrs. Bruton was leading him to her alcove and she cast her eyes down demurely.

“You won’t forget about bringing me your old gowns, milady,” she said to Corinne. “For as I was reading in the Bible just before you came, ‘The Devil finds work for idle hands’.” She spoiled this demure speech by adding, “And a little lace and ribbons would be handy, if you happen to have any you don’t need.”

“I’m sure I might find something to keep your hands busy,” Corinne said. “Will I be allowed to see you when I come?”

“Oh yes, milady. I’m in the annex. I’m not allowed to go out, but I can have an occasional visitor. Especially when she’s bringing sewing. I had best go now.” She bobbed a curtsey.

Before she left, Coffen stopped her for a few words. Corinne didn’t hear what was said, for Prance, who had been listening, turned to speak to her.

“Fanny forgot her Bible,” Corinne mentioned. Prance picked it up and began to thumb through it. When Fanny was leaving, he handed it to her, just as Byron came out of the alcove. “Five pounds seems entirely acceptable,” Byron said in a low aside.

The others each went into the alcove to pay up their share. Mrs. Bruton thanked them courteously and saw them out.

“Well, what did you think of the place?” Byron asked, looking to the others as they went to the carriage. “It seems well run, for that sort of establishment, don’t you think? The girls are well clothed, well fed, and well read–in the good book, at least. A Bible in every room. I doubt you would find a copy of your
Rondeaux
there, Prance, or my own wretched stuff.”

“Did you see any journals about?” Coffen asked.

Byron frowned. “Why no. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.” So how had Fanny read of Henry’s death, if there were no journals in the place?

Prance was gratified that Byron had heard of his
Rondeaux
, but he had other things on his mind. He gave a sly smile and said, “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. An utter banality, of course, but a propos. The Bibles are provided gratis. Alas, I doubt the girls make use of them. I noticed Fanny’s pages were uncut past the first ten or twelve pages. And by the by, did you notice what she said about idle hands, Corrie? That quotation—actually misquotation—doesn’t occur in the Bible. It was Isaac Watts, in his harangue against
Idleness and Mischief,
who said, ‘Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.’ Am I not right, Byron?”

“Afraid you’re asking the wrong gent, Prance. I haven’t read my Bible since leaving school. The words sound Bible-ish, but I shouldn’t think the phrase occurs in the first ten or twelve pages at least. Not many idle hands or idle anything else in Genesis. The creation story, if memory serves, is followed by a series of ‘begats.’ No idleness there! I should take up my Bible reading again, for it’s demmed fine literature, once you get to the meat of it.”

When they were settled in the carriage, he looked at Corinne and decided to make his move. “Will you be attending Lady Crozier’s party this evening, Lady deCoventry?”

“No, I think not,” she said. “I shall be busy elsewhere.”

Coffen glared at Byron and said, “Lady deCoventry’s fiancé, Lord Luten, can’t get about. Busted ankle.”

“Forgive me. I hadn’t heard of your engagement,” he said to Corinne, in a soft voice that blended apology and infinite regret.

Coffen mistrusted the mooning way they were looking at each other. He said, “As I was saying, that busted ankle, it happened when Luten jumped out a window while trying to save Corinne’s—his fiancée’s, life.”

“That sounds a marvelously amusing story,” Byron said. “Pity you gave me the ending before the beginning, Pattle. Let us hear the rest of it.”

“Prance is the story teller,” Coffen said.

Prance indulged himself in a detailed exposition of this harrowing adventure, in which he featured as the hero, overcoming all obstacles, omitting only that he didn’t realize at the time he was dealing with a murderer. This passed the time until they reached St. James’s Street, where Byron was let down.

“I’d like to hear how this business of Henry Fogg’s murder works out,” he said as he stepped down. “Keep me informed, eh Prance?” With a nod to Coffen and a charming bow to Corinne, during which she and Byron gazed into each other’s eyes for too long to suit Coffen, Byron limped away.

Prance was delighted that the acquaintance was to continue, despite his having concealed that Corinne was engaged. Having done his duty by Luten, Coffen turned his mind to the mystery.

“Well, what did you make of the visit?” he asked, pitching his question to them both.

“I think it a great waste of talent that Mrs. Bruton has the charge of only a couple of dozen young girls,” Prance replied. “She could manage the Dragoons.”

“A regular bruiser, ain’t she? She could floor Gentleman Jackson with one fist tied behind her back. Demmed near broke my hand when she shook it. But Fanny is all right. A regular little saint is what she is. I can’t imagine what ailed Henry Fogg that he didn’t leap at the chance of marrying her.”

Prance and Corinne exchanged a speaking glance. It seemed Coffen had tumbled into love again, and with a little hussy who was no better than she should be. Even if she had not been pregnant, Corinne would not have been happy at this new object of his indiscriminating affection.

“I thought her dead common,” was Prance’s opinion.

“Coffen was always partial to actresses,” Corinne reminded him. “I had the impression Fanny was performing for our–or at least his–benefit.”

Coffen’s brow furrowed, but when he spoke, they saw it was not Fanny that he was fretting over. “Did you say two dozen girls, Prance?”

“Yes, that’s what Mrs. Bruton said. Why do you ask?”

“That’s a pretty big place. I figured it must hold twice that many.”

“You’re forgetting all the facilities of laundry and so on, along with the birthing facilities.”

“Yes, but it’s big as a castle. Four floors, there must be eighty rooms there.”

“More like forty or forty-eight. I expect Mrs. Bruton would know, and she said two dozen girls,” Prance insisted.

“Fanny mentioned something about an annex as well,” Coffen muttered, as the carriage drew up in front of Luten’s house, “Do we tell him?” he asked. No one was in any doubt as to his meaning.

Corinne adopted a nonchalant tone, but her heart was pounding. “Tell Luten about Byron, you mean? It’s up to you.”

“If we mention him at all, it’s you who ought to do it, Corinne,” Prance said.

“Why me? You’re the one who invited him.”

“Yes, but you’re the reason he accepted.”

“Why didn’t you tell him I’m engaged?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“No matter, he knows now and since he’s a decent Christian, he won’t keep pestering Corrie,” Coffen said. “We’ll keep it under our hats. No point upsetting Luten when he’s already blue as megrims with that busted ankle.”

“If you all think I shouldn’t tell him, then I shan’t,” Corinne said with a sniff, to conceal her vast relief.

Luten had tea waiting for his friends when they returned. Knowing that Coffen would want food, he also had his chef prepare a plate of sandwiches. He had spent the morning reading notes Brougham sent him from Whitehall, but reading and adding his comments was not as absorbing as being there. He missed the thrust and parry of debate.

He found his mind wandering to the mystery of Fogg’s murder. But really it was not a very interesting murder. Fogg had seduced and abandoned some young woman whose friend or family had exacted restitution. If it had been done by duel, it would hardly have caused a ripple in society. His thoughts turned to the future, that glistened in glory before him.

First, marriage to Corinne. The wasted years of covertly coveting her, while feigning disinterest and even contempt, were gone. The memory of that offer rejected three years ago still lingered, but the anger had dissipated. His demmed pride had wasted three of the best years of their lives. Now all that was over. He could lay off the pretense of indifference and show her the depth of his feelings.

After a few moments of reveling in a golden glow, his mind returned to the other happy aspect of that future, politics. He already knew in a general way the changes he would like to institute when–if—the Whigs were brought into power. His ankle was feeling much better this morning, since Simon had put on a new bandage. He greeted his guests standing without a cane, and even took a few steps forward, drawn by his fiancée’s youth and beauty. He knew every plane and angle of her face by heart, yet when he saw her, she surpassed memory. It was the liveliness that memory failed to capture—the dancing light in her eyes, the enchanting smile that played over her lips.