Murder's Sad Tale (11 page)

“A fellow called Bunyan must own this town,” Coffen said, as he noticed how often the name appeared on signs and businesses.

“I believe the name refers to John Bunyan,” Prance informed him. “He spent time here — in prison, if I recall, where he did much of his writing.”

“Ah, a writer. That explains why you know him.”

“Surely you know, the
Pilgrim
’
s Progress”

“I’ve heard of it. A holy book, isn’t it?”

“A religious allegory. Vanity Fair, Slough of Despond — that sort of thing.”

Coffen said what he always said when he lost track of a conversation. “Eh?”

They were both saved further explanation by a sight of Brinks Hat Emporium. “Here we are,” Coffen said, lengthening his stride in his eagerness.

Brinks Hat Emporium was the old-fashioned sort of shop with its weathered wooden shingle hanging out front, creaking in the wind. It boasted no broad bow window displaying its wares or the fancy boxes they came in. Its door wore no shining brass hardware. By placing his eye against the narrow pane Coffen could see a counter backed by a row of shelves holding half a dozen plaster heads topped by gentlemen’s hats of various sorts. A bell jangled as they opened the door and entered. From a doorway at the rear a clerk came hurrying out, struggling into his jacket as he came towards them.

He was a tall, long-limbed man in his forties with a thin faced and a wisp of brownish-gray hair trying without much success to cover his balding pate. He was afflicted with an excess of nose, long and thin, that bent down nearly touching his lips. But when he opened his mouth and greeted them, his smile and his manner made one forget his physical imperfections.

His smile seemed to say there was no one he would rather see standing before him than these two fine gentlemen. His whole body took part in the welcome, as he weaved back and forth, drawing his hands together in a slow, silent clapping motion.

“Ah, a fine day, is it not?” he said, “and entirely welcome after a long winter. Yes, spring is on its way. I feel it in my bones. I’m Mr. Brinks Junior, by the way, and happy to be of any help I can. You gentlemen are not from Bedford, I think? I haven’t seen a hat like that in town.” It was, of course, Prance whose hat received this commendation. “A very fine curled beaver it is, sir. And I know a little something about hats, if I know nothing else.” A tinny little laugh suggested what worlds of knowledge this joke covered.

Prance could never resist a compliment. “It’s a Baxter, actually,” he said, and held it forth for the clerk to admire.

“Ah, the great Baxter! So you are London gentlemen! I guessed as much. Just passing through, I daresay. I’d be delighted to suggest a few of our local sights. This is Bunyan country, you must know. Bunyan is our greatest attraction.”

“Then he ain’t dead?” Coffen asked, interested.

Brinks took it for a rare joke and laughed, displaying a full set of yellowing teeth. “Not in this town, sir. Gone but not forgotten, as they say.”

Before Coffen could further disgrace himself by asking where he’d gone, Prance collared the conversation and praised the local hero. He was quite prepared to discuss Bunyan and any other local attractions the man recommended.

Coffen recalled him to business. He handed Brinks the hat from Cooper’s apartment, pointed at the label on the inner band and said, “This is one of yours, I believe?”

Brinks took it, turned it around, examined it and said, “This is an ‘05 Corinthian model, nearly a decade old, sir. A good hat in its day. I see by its condition you are after a replacement. I fear this particular model is no longer in production but I might be able to bring this one back for you. We don’t have hat-making facilities here. We just sell them, but we can clean and recondition them, good as new. Better!”

“What we’re after,” Coffen said, “is to find out who bought it. Do you keep records?”

“Certainly we do. When was it bought?”

“I’ve no idea,” Coffen confessed. “You mentioned ‘05. P’raps you could have a look at your books and tell us.”

A frown creased Brinks’s brow. “I didn’t think, at the time, that the Corinthian would do well here. I didn’t order any.”

“But it has your label in it,” Prance pointed out.

“So it has. When I say I didn’t order any, I meant in ‘05. By ‘07 the model was discontinued and they sold off the leftovers at a bargain. By ‘07 Bedford was ready for the higher crown, taking into account the excellent price. I ordered half a dozen.”

“Who bought them?” Coffen asked.

Brinks turned the hat over and studied it. “It’s a large hat. I wouldn’t have ordered more than one large. I’ll just have a squint at my books while you gentlemen take a look around.”

He drew a ledger out from behind the counter, blew the dust off it, put on a pair of spectacles, wet his finger and began flipping the pages. “Ah, here we are!” he said in a moment. “August 9, 1908. Mr. Hayes. I remember him well. I had despaired of ever selling the large Corinthian.”

“Do you remember what he looked like?” Coffen asked eagerly.

“I do indeed, sir. A handsome, stylish, well set-up gentleman. Youngish, in his late thirties, dark hair.”

Prance drew out the miniature. “Is this him?”

Brinks examined it for only a moment. “Indeed it is, this is Mr. Hayes to a tee.”

“Do you have his address?”

“Happens I do. He’d been sent down from London, but was staying a few weeks at the Lion here in town. A government inspector of some sort having to do with fire prevention. It was shortly after the big fire at the orphanage. He was in the shop a few times. Then late on the Saturday afternoon he sent his clerk in with a check to pick up the hat. Said he wanted it for church on Sunday. He seemed a perfectly respectable gentleman. I thought nothing of it. But when I took the check to the bank on Monday, they wouldn’t accept it. And when I went along to the Lion Inn, he was gone.”

He stopped, waiting for gasps of shock and astonishment. When they didn’t come, he continued, “Slipped out the window during the night without paying his bill, and his clerk along with him.” He slid one palm across the other in a broad gesture to indicate the speed of Hayes’s departure. “Yessir, he cozzened not only my poor self but the entire town. I wasn’t the only one he caught. Oh I remember Mr. Hayes very well.” His affability faded to be replaced by narrow-eyed suspicion. “A friend of yours, is he?”

“
Au contraire
,"
Prance said.

“He means no,” Coffen translated, and drew a weary sigh. It seemed the trip was in vain. It was Russell’s hat all right, and it confirmed he was a confidence man, but he’d just been passing through town in August of '08, using a false name. They still didn’t know who he really was, or where he was from. And the Lion Inn would be no help either. They’d have some phony address in London. He pulled a coin from his pocket and placed it on the counter.

“Very kind of you, sir,” Brinks said, affability restored as he slid the coin into his palm. “If there’s anything else ...”

“There is one thing,” Coffen said. “You mentioned his clerk brought in the check and got the hat. What did the clerk look like?”

“A small man, short and slight. Dark, like Hayes, but not as handsome. Something rather
feral
about him.”

This was a new word for Coffen. “Eh?”

“He means rather like a wild animal,” Prance translated.

“That’s it in a nutshell,” Brinks confirmed. “It was the teeth that did it. Long, sharp eye teeth, like a rat. But well-spoken enough, for a clerk I mean. Not as dapper as Mr. Hayes, of course. Oh, and the limp,” he added as an afterthought. It gave him sort of a swinging walk, like an orang.”

“Gimpy, was he?” Coffen asked with interest. “I wonder now if it was a temporary thing from a blister, or was it like Byron’s case. Permanent, I mean.”

“Oh it was permanent,” Brinks assured him. “He had special boots with one sole thicker than the other.”

The satisfied “Ahh” that wafted from Coffen’s mouth was usually associated with food. But then such a lovely clue as a limping man was caviar to him.

“We’re off, then,” he said to Prance, jerking his head toward the door.

“What about Mr. Hayes?” Brinks asked. “Why are you asking about him? Dare we merchants hope we’ll see our money?”

“Not a chance,” Coffen said, and retrieved the hat. “He’s dead. Murdered.”

Brinks did not quite smile, but he neither felt nor simulated grief either. “The mills of the gods,” he murmured.

“It’s still early. We might as well have a look around town while we’re here,” Prance said, as they walked along the High Street. “I wouldn’t mind seeing —"

“We’d best check out the Lion, then get back to town,” Coffen said.

“No rush, is there?"

“I don’t know about you, Reg, but
I
mean to follow up on that orang fellow with the sharp teeth and the limp. You remember Mickey mentioned it was a little fellow that killed Russell. Ten to one it was the orang. A falling out among thieves. And I mean to nip along to Cooper’s place as well and see if anyone saw who put the hat in Cooper’s closet.”

“You run along and question them at the Lion. It will leave me time to just have a peek at the jail where Bunyan wrote his masterpiece. It would be a shame to come to Bedford and not see that.”

Coffen wrestled with his conscience. He would have liked a peek into a jail, but duty won out. “You won’t be long,” he said, a command, not a question or request.

“Back in two ticks,” he promised. As it happened, he came across a book-shop that actually had a copy of his
Round Table Rondeaux.
He fell into conversation with the shopkeeper about the book. Sensing a buyer, the clerk praised the
Rondeaux
to the skies. He didn’t make his sale, however. Prance modestly admitted he was the author. But he was so thrilled with the whole encounter that he
did
buy another copy of
The Pilgrim
’
s Progress,
to keep his other copy company. Or perhaps he would give it to Byron as a little joke, as Byron sometimes called himself a pilgrim, when he spoke of going abroad.

The proprietor at the Lion confirmed the story told by Brinks. Hayes and his secretary had been there, had given a false address in London, and taken their departure through the window in the dead of night, never to be seen or heard of again. The visit to Bedford had not been a dead loss. At least they now knew Russell had an accomplice, and had a good description of him.

With good weather and hard driving, they reached London late that same evening. Coffen’s snoring in the carriage made it impossible for Prance to sleep. He wrapped his scarf around his head to subdue the racket and spent the trip thinking about his novel. He would have do some research on tigers. Perhaps a trip to Exeter Exchange to view the real thing, though he hated the idea of caged animals, to say nothing of the smell. Did they still have a tiger at the Exchange? He hadn’t been there for years. He remembered the hippo that everyone thought looked like Liverpool.

But was a fully-grown tiger really what he wanted for his novel? Would a smallish tiger be frightening enough to scare off Lorraine’s attacker, and more importantly, send goose-bumps up the spines of his readers? Was the whole idea too outré? Nonsense! He wanted something shocking. He would make the tiger a creature of chained power, pacing sinuously back and forth in his cage with fulminating eye due to his frustration. Then roaring and snarling and straining at the leash when occasionally taken out for a walk.

Perhaps a little foreshadowing with Malvain wondering what would happen if the wild thing should ever break free. And how would the necessary breaking free occur? That would take some thinking. If some dusty intellectual wanted to see the tiger as a symbol for the Luddites, so be it. He certainly wouldn’t mention such an idea to Coffen, who despised symbolism without actually knowing what it was.

The jarring of the carriage when they reached Berkeley Square woke Coffen up. “We’re here,” Prance said. “I hope you had a good nap.”

“Slept like a log,” Coffen replied, searching around the seat for his hat and gloves and Russell’s hat.

“Not that quietly, actually.”

The well-trained post-boy was already getting his bag down. He carried it to the door for Coffen, who was astonished at this degree of condescension. He felt he ought to give the fellow a pourboire, but couldn’t find any change in his pocket, so said, “Thankee kindly,” and went into the house. Prance, watching from the sidewalk, noticed that he didn’t have to unlock the door. Really it was unconscionable what his servants got away with. Not that there was much left in the house that was worth stealing after their years of unchecked depredations.

Coffen set his bag down and lit a lamp. Ah, good. There was a bit of wine left in the decanter. He’d have a glass to wake him up before heading off to Green Park for a word with Mickey. He’d be there till dawn. He wanted to find out if the fellow who killed Russell had a limp. You’d think he would have mentioned it if he had. But then the killer would be skulking, probably bending down, which would tend to hide the limp. He took a couple of coins from the ginger jug for Mickey, noticing there were considerably fewer there than when he left. He’d have to get a new hiding place.

He knew there was no point trying to rouse up his servants, so he took up the whistle he kept by the front door, went outside and walked to the corner before whistling for a hackney. He’d hear about it from Reg if he blew it that close to home. Tarsome fellow.

He had a long enough wait for a hackney to come, and it was chilly too, but eventually he was ensconced and on his way to Green Park. He spotted the glimmer of the link-boy’s light in the distance, told the driver to wait and went after Mickey. Mickey was sound asleep, curled up with his lamp leaning against a tree. He almost hated to awaken him, and it wasn’t worth the trip either. Mickey didn’t know if the fellow had limped or not. He thought he did walk “kind of funny," but with the man hurrying over rough terrain he couldn’t say if it was a limp for sure, or just the uneven ground.