Murder on Charing Cross Road (13 page)

“If you’re quite sure, milady. I don’t mind staying up.”

“I’m quite sure.”

As soon as she was alone, Corinne ran to the window to see if Luten had sent for the carriage. Finding the street empty, she tore off her gown and hurried into a plain, dark afternoon suit. She snatched up a shawl, changed her slippers for walking shoes and stood at the window, watching.

Corinne had not long to wait before seeing some action. The first movement was not a carriage drawn to the door as she expected, but Luten slipping quietly out of the house and walking away on foot. He was becoming quite sly in his efforts to avoid her help. He was meeting his carriage at the corner lest she hear it arriving, since her bedroom faced the street. In a trice she ran to the top of the staircase and peered down into the hall.

Seeing no sign of Evans, she concluded that he, believing she had retired and having been told by Luten that he would be gone for some time, had gone to the kitchen for some company and refreshment. She nipped quietly below, retrieved the whistle that always hung in readiness near the front door and left. She first ran across the street to her own former home to seek Black’s company. The house was in darkness, but that didn’t stop her.

Black often watched the street in darkness for the comings and goings of the Brigade. But after three loud knocks with no answer, she knew he was not at home.

She ran next door to Coffen’s house. After three raps of the door knocker a grumpy footman opened the door and said, “Oh, it’s you, Lady deCoventry. Mr. Pattle ain’t at home.”

She didn’t waste time informing him of her change of name. Imagine him not knowing! “Where is he? It’s most important that I find him.”

“He’s out, isn’t he?”

“But where? Is he at Sir Reginald’s house?”

“He didn’t say. Why don’t you try it?”
the ill-bred man said, and closed the door in her face. Coffen really must do something about his servants.

She rushed back across the street to Reggie’s house, where Soames, under orders from Sir Reginald, played his role to perfection, answered on the first knock, said “Good evening, Lady Luten. May I be of some help?”

“Is Mr. Pattle here, Soames?”

“No, milady.”

“Then I’ll speak to Sir Reginald.”

“He’s not at home this evening. He indicated he might be late.”

“Is he with Pattle?”

“He left alone, Madam, didn’t say where he was going. Can I be of any help?”
he asked again.

“I — no, I think not, Soames, thank you,”
she said, and went home. She slipped quietly back into the house and back up to her room, her mind alive with questions and frustration. They had all gone out, and that could only mean they were on some dangerous mission. But where were they? She couldn’t just hire a hackney and drive all over London. The only people she knew to be involved were the Morgraves. She heartily disliked to call on Samantha at this hour. And what could she say to her?

No, Luten had learned something and had taken the whole Brigade — except her — to do battle. The whole group would not have gone just to make some investigation or inquiries. No, this was the night. It must be a confrontation — a dangerous confrontation as he had taken such pains to hide it from her. Oh what should she do?

As she sat, wondering, Prance’s carriage drew up to his house. Prance came hurrying out and climbed in. He had been home all the time! While she was digesting this piece of treachery, Coffen and Black appeared around the corner, hastened toward the carriage and climbed in. She darted downstairs as fast as her legs would carry her. But by the time she got the door open the carriage had already pulled away. She ran after it to the corner to see which direction it took.

Then she used the whistle and blew a signal for a hackney. On this night when everything was going wrong, she was highly gratified when a carriage appeared before she had quite lost sight of Prance’s rig. “Follow that carriage!”
she shouted up to the driver, then pulled the door open, climbed inside and sat with her head stuck out the window to watch Prance’s carriage draw steadily ahead.

“Faster! Can’t you go any faster!”
she called up to the driver. Prance’s rig was drawing farther ahead every minute as the hackney traveled north on Davies Street, but she saw it turn right on Oxford. Where the devil could they be going?

Traffic was light on Oxford Street, so she could keep the carriage in sight as it traveled east, then turned left, heading north. But which street had it taken? None of the names sounded familiar. Had Luten discovered where the French spies lived? Was he even now attacking them? They would be armed, dangerous men. She shouted to the hackney to turn left at the next corner, but after a few blocks with no sign of Prance’s carriage, she told him to turn around, drive on to the next block and try it.

It was so difficult to communicate with the driver that she finally told him to stop, and she climbed up on the driver’s seat beside him. This gave her a much better view of the surroundings. But the surroundings were anonymous, just houses and some businesses. Above, the black sky added an ominous touch. It was also chilly up here with a brisk wind pulling at her shawl. She wrapped it around her head and shoulders and wished she had brought a proper coat.

She was happy to see the driver was a young, stout fellow who looked as if he could handle himself in a brawl, should it prove necessary. “Where was it exactly you wanted to go, Mum?”
he asked in confusion. The lady looked half demented. At least she didn’t look like the sort who’d stiff him on his fare.

“I don’t know,”
she said, close to tears. “Where are we anyway?”

“I’ve lost track, Mum. We turned north off High Holburn. There’s not much here a lady like yourself might be interested in. What was it, exactly, you were looking for?”

“Frenchmen,”
she said, and drew a long, frustrated sigh.

“Ah, a Frenchman. There’s plenty of them just west of here at Somers Town. They’re building new houses and all. It’ll be a bit of France in England, you might say.”

“Really! Let us go there — What is your name?”

“Tommy Tucker,”
he said, “like the nursery rhyme.”

Tommy —
that was a lucky name. It was a Tommy who had rescued Prance. “I’m —
Lady —
that is, Miss Clare,”
she said, reverting to her maiden name.

With a snap of the whip over the team’s heads, the hackney was in motion again, driving straight into trouble.

* * * *

Luten peered through the darkness as he rode north on Grays Inn Lane, searching for a stand of trees, the “arbour”
the Frenchies had spoken of. April was still chilly at night, and the stiff breeze didn’t help. The moon was invisible but a brighter patch in the leaden sky indicated where it was trying to show through. It was a desolate enough spot after dark. There was some traffic but certainly nothing in the nature of Morgrave’s mount.

After a longish ride he spotted a dark, amorphous, cloud ahead, that revealed itself as a little spinney as he drew nearer. This must be the place. He looked all around as he approached. No one was about. He walked Smoker into the patch of trees, dismounted and looked about for a good tall tree that he could identify later on. He chose a sturdy oak that towered above the others and tethered his mount to it.

He stood still, looking all around, listening for any faint sound, then crept forward as quietly as the undergrowth allowed to reconnoitre. He didn’t hear them coming behind him. He didn’t suspect a thing when the attack came.

A heavy blow to the back of the head sent him to the ground. He didn’t see a shower of stars, his mind just faded into dark oblivion. When he came to later, he had been bound to a tree with his arms tied behind him, his eyes covered and a rag of some sort in his mouth, tied tightly around his head.

Had they known he was coming, or did Morgrave always take the precaution of having a lookout stationed an hour before his meetings? Worst of all, he couldn’t warn the others. He struggled against his ropes until his wrists were worn raw. He couldn’t even dislodge the rag in his mouth to allow him to call out to them. He was helpless, and afraid they might plan to kill him before they left.

His small consolation was that at least Corinne was safe at home. His regret was that the last words he had spoken to her were a lie.

“Are we all armed?”
Prance asked, as a prelude to amazing them with the armoury stored in his carriage side pockets.

Black pulled out his pistol. Coffen felt in his pocket and muttered, “By Jove, I forgot my pistol. It was going to that tavern that did it. I meant to pick it up before we left, but me and Black went to a tavern instead. Your rig was standing by when we got back, Reg. We hid out in a tavern to prevent Corrie from recruiting us. You know what she’s like.”

“I do indeed, which is why I instructed Soames to say I was out when she called — as she did.”

“I knew it!”
Coffen said. “Luten would have my head on a spike if she’d talked me into it.”

“I had alerted Soames. He reported she had already called on you two. I was her last resort when she found neither of you was available.”
This did not sit well with Baron Wolfried. Perhaps this was the night she would realize her error.

Black was struck with an agonizing pang at having failed her. Would she ever forgive him? Would she ever trust him again. “Poor lass,”
he murmured.

“You’d best take this pistol, Coffen,”
Prance said, reaching into the capacious side pocket and handing Coffen a pistol. “It’s loaded, so handle it carefully. God only knows what we’re walking into. I have not come entirely unprepared, however. What we must do is take these weapons with us, since we’re to stable my carriage at the inn. Knives, anyone?”
he asked, delving into the pocket again and drawing forth a couple of knives of different sizes.

“A pistol’s my weapon,”
Black said. Coffen accepted a small knife and stuck it in his pocket.

“I wonder now if laudanum will be required — to knock them out, you know. I have brandy as well — for our own use if necessary.”

“I’d leave them weapons in the rig,”
Black said. “It’s not likely they’d be accepting a drink in the middle of a brawl.”

“I meant the laudanum to subdue them after we’d defeated them,”
Prance explained.

Black ignored this foolishness and said, “The brandy might be welcome when it’s all over.”

“Perhaps you’re right. We don’t want to be overladen. I do feel, however, that these bindings are necessary.”
As he spoke, he drew a few pre-cut lengths of rope from the pocket. These were acceptable to Black, but he smirked in the darkness when Prance explained his cunning ruse of wearing a long, narrow length of linen to form his cravat in case the ropes should prove insufficient. The ropes proved so awkward to carry that in the end they left them in the carriage.

“You’re like a magician pulling tricks out of his hat,”
said Coffen, intrigued. “Anything else in there?”

“Well, just these,”
Prance said, drawing out some large ornamental agates he used to keep in a bowl in one of his spare bedrooms. “I thought they might come in handy if we wanted something to throw at someone. My own aim is not unerring. How about you, Black?”

“You’d ought to put them in the toe of a sock and they’d make a dandy weapon to give a fellow a clout on the head,”
was Black’s opinion. “Here, let me wrap them in my hanky. You never know, sometimes you want to knock them out quiet like.”
He took the agates and tied them with a knot into his handkerchief and whirled it around a few times to get the feel of it before sticking it in his pocket.

“Anything else in there?”
Coffen asked.

“Not actually in the pocket. I’ll be carrying my walking stick with the sword that can be released in a trice. I do still need my walking stick. My ribs —" he explained, when he heard what sounded like a snort of amusement from Black. He wanted them to know in advance that he might not be able to participate as fully as he wished in the coming melee.

“Oh and one other wee item — a mere bagatelle really. I filled my snuffbox with pepper. Pretend I’m taking snuff, you see, and toss it in the enemy’s face.”
He drew it out to show them. “It opens at the touch of this little button.”
He pushed the button, a puff of powdered pepper came out, and Coffen fell into paroxysms of sneezing.

“If you think you’ll be taking snuff in the middle of a brawl —" was Black’s response. He just rolled his eyes at this fop’s notion of a good set to. Thank goodness Luten and Coffen would be there, for the Frenchies would make fast work of this dandified fool.

Prance stabled the carriage at Grays Inn and Black led them down the road to the “arbour”
where Luten would be waiting. They each drew out a pistol, just in case. Prance already felt ripples of apprehension scuttle down his spine as he peered into the shadows, half expecting an attack at every step. But with the indomitable Black on one side and Coffen on the other, he managed to keep his fears to himself. Great stuff for his spy novel, traversing this spooky road, never knowing at what moment hot lead might enter his body.

“An eerie sort of place,”
Coffen said. “I’m surprised there ain’t owls hooting.”
As they reached the edge of the spinney, he said, “Do you think we can risk calling Luten’s name? It can’t be much past eleven o’clock. The Frenchies shouldn’t be here yet.”

“Let us just go quietly in and peer about,”
Prance suggested. “No need to announce to the Frenchies that we’re here, if by some chance they came this early.”

The whole spinney wasn’t much over two acres in size. The branches, though just beginning to leaf, cast the area into nearly total darkness. The wind caused an eerie, whispering sigh above as they crept together into the darkness, peering about from tree to tree. A whinny alerted them to Smoker’s presence nearby. “That’s Smoker,”
Coffen whispered. “Luten can’t be far away.”

“Perhaps you might just take a peek to make sure it
is
Luten’s mount,”
Prance suggested. Coffen dove farther into the woods and came back “It’s him all right. A bay gelding, four white legs and a star on his forehead. No sign of Luten though.”