Murder's Sad Tale (17 page)

“You’re right, of course. I’ll be right there.” He had a word with his coachman while Coffen darted into his own house to retrieve the first note found in Russell’s flat, then he came dashing out and joined Prance.

Before they reached Corinne’s front door, Luten came darting across the street to join them. Arriving en masse would let her know he came on business. Townsend, the most famous of the Bow Street Runners, was said to have taken more criminals than the rest of the force put together. He was so clever and cunning the Government often hired him to accompany government shipments of large sums of money about the countryside. Society hostesses hired him for their balls to protect their guests’ jewels, and to lend their party extra cachet. He was even a favorite of the royal family.

During the day he wore a blue coat and kerseymere breeches, with a broad brimmed white hat over his flaxen wig. As his short, fat body was covered in a black jacket and pantaloons on this occasion, they assumed he had been in service at some fancy ball, where he would mingle with the great on terms of seeming equality.

Certainly he considered himself the equal of any of them. He was holding forth in the middle of the room when they entered, using his gold-nobbed stick to illustrate some point. Corinne had summoned Mrs. Ballard, who sat shrinking into a corner of the sofa, looking at him as if he planned to haul them off to Newgate.

“Ah, the Brigade!” Townsend said, laughing when they entered. “Another little murder for me, eh? I ought to give you fellows a discount. The countess has been telling me what she knows. What can you gentlemen add to the bones of her tale?” Corinne wondered what sum Luten was paying for his services. To judge from his jovial manner, it must be plenty.

When Pattle told what he knew, Townsend looked unimpressed. “What, a common little thief done in by a clerk? That’s not my sort of case, gentlemen, nor yours as a rule. I should be at the duchess’s ball this minute. Not that she jneed worry. The criminal element know she hired me, and won’t dare try anything. No doubt you know Louis Lamaar, the lover of diamonds, has been active this season. I took the precaution of bringing him in for questioning this afternoon and leaving orders he’s not to be let out before morning. But you sent for me, Luten, so I realize this is of some importance to you personally.”

“To my companion, Mrs. Ballard, actually,” Corinne explained, and indicated Mrs. Ballard. She did it with her most charming smile. It worked on Townsend, as it usually worked on gentlemen. He barely glanced at Mrs. Ballard, cringing in the corner.

“And how may I be of assistance to you, milady?” he said, sweeping a bow to Corinne.

“I wanted to give you these,” Coffen said, handing him the two notes, and informed him of what he and Black had discovered. “I found this one in Sykes’s pocket. He’s the limping man, goes by different names, Morton and Stokes for two. Looks like both victims got notes from the same person. The one we found tonight is signed P as well. The only P we know of in the case is Peter Paul Cooper.”

“This looks like a lady’s handwriting,” Townsend said, studying the notes. “Too curly cue for a man’s.”

Prance, looking over his shoulder, observed that the writing was similar to his own. “Or a gentleman with a fine hand,” he said.

“A womanish man, you mean. Aye, that could be. This Peter Paul, what sort of fellow is he?”

“Not womanish, I’d say,” Coffen admitted, “but holy. A Bible reader.”

“Don’t mean a thing,” Townsend said with a dismissive bat of the hand holding his stick, causing Mrs. Ballard to duck. “Some of the worst blackguards who’ve ever danced at the end of a rope can quote scripture at you till you’d think they were archbishops. I sometimes think the good book gives them ideas. I’ll get a sample of this Bible-reader’s writing. Send a fellow along with some sort of form for him to sign. That’ll tell us if he’s the lad.”

Mrs. Ballard’s mouth fell open at his heresies, but she was too overcome to voice an objection. Coffen was chagrined that he hadn’t thought to get a look at Cooper’s writing. He was even more surprised that Black hadn’t.

“And if Cooper’s not the guilty party?” Luten said. “He has a sort of alibi, not proven. There’s no telling when the note was written either. What else can you suggest?”

Townsend began pacing up and down, his head bent in thought, his stick beating a tattoo on his hip. “Scenario one: we have a no-good fortune hunter murdered, very likely by a jealous fellow after the same fortune. Someone discovered the murderer, tried holding him to ransom and paid the price for it. No, that don’t cover all the facts. This first note says ‘Tonight, ten o’clock at Green Park. Bring it with you.’ What we must figure out is what this mysterious
it
is. Common sense says it’s something that would keep the wealthy lady, this Fenwick, from marrying the lad.”

"Some criminal doing on Russell’s part,” Luten suggested. “He traveled under various names and moved about a good deal, which suggests crime all right.”

“So it would seem,” Townsend agreed, “but it would be uphill work proving it. These here-and-there fellows with a dozen names are the very devil to check up on. I can’t be everywhere.”

“But Cooper didn’t know of any such criminal past,” Luten continued. “He would have told Miss Fenwick if he had known, don’t you think, Mrs. Ballard?”

She took herself by the scruff of the neck and answered. “I believe he would. I know he told her, or hinted at least, that Russell was only after her for her money. That happened after Russell dropped Miss Barker, whom he mistakenly believed owned the house she lived in. I dislike to say it, but he struck me as a spiteful man.”

“So he’d have told this Fenwick if he knew something that would stop her from marrying him,” Townsend concluded. “Ergo he’s innocent.”

“Either that or we don’t have the right motive. Do you have a scenario two?” Luten said.

Townsend smacked his lips, frowned, fingered the note and said, “We’re looking for a third party. This P.” He turned his sharp eyes on Mrs. Ballard, causing her to cringe more deeply into the sofa corner. “Any of your card crones fit the bill, Madam?”

“I’ve gone over the list a dozen times. There is no one except Mr. Cooper. My own name is Gertrude,” she added, lest he cast her in the role of murderess. Then her mouth opened in a silent shriek. The whole group stared at her in expectation of some shocking revelation.

“Speak up, woman!” Townsend demanded.

She gulped and said in a choked voice, “My maiden name is Perkins.”

Biting back a grin, Townsend asked, “And did you kill either of the men?”

“No! No, certainly not. ‘Though shalt not kill.' It’s in the Bible.”

Corinne patted her arm. “He’s having a little joke, Mrs. Ballard. We know you had nothing to do with it.”

Mrs. Ballard was ghost-white and clutching her throbbing heart. Coffen rushed to get her a glass of wine, and filled one up for himself while he was about it. This called Corinne to her duties as hostess and she offered them all wine.

“I’d best keep my wits about me,” Townsend said, reluctantly declining the offer. Then he pulled out his turnip watch and glanced at it. “What we have here is a lack of evidence. I must hie me back to her grace’s ball, but I’ll think over what we have to work with here. You never know, I might find a lucky P in my dossiers. Or we might get lucky and have another murder to give us more to work with. I’ll get back to you, and you keep me informed.” Then he bowed and stalked from the room.

“He’s not a very nice man, is he?” Mrs. Ballard said in a voice so soft only Coffen and Corinne heard.

They all sat, sipping their wine and wracking their brains for a likely P. “It could stand for a nickname,” Luten said.

“The lad who told us which flat was Sykes’s knew who Black meant when he asked for Limpy,” Coffen said. “I wonder now what P could be a nickname for. Like paunchy, or porky or pale.”

Prance, who liked showing off his vocabulary, added, “Pusillanimous, paltry, picayune.” The others ignored him.

“Or Papa,” Miss Ballard suggested, causing some interest. When she saw they took her comment seriously, she added, “What might Russell have that his Papa would want?”

“Mickey said whoever killed Russell took a piece of paper off him,” Coffen reminded them. “He left the watch and money behind, so the paper must be important.”

Luten sat, listening and thinking. “A deed to some property, perhaps?” he suggested.

“You’re forgetting something,” Corinne said, as she was still angry with him. “The note was in a woman’s writing.”

Luten, for the same reason, persisted. “We don’t know it’s a woman’s writing.”

“No, and we don’t know the P stands for his Papa either,” Coffen reminded them. “Can’t imagine a man killing his own son.”

“That does seem a bit Biblical,” Prance agreed. Mrs. Ballard scowled at him. “I am thinking of Abraham, Mrs. Ballard,” he said.

“Abraham did not slay his son, Sir Reginald,” she felt obliged to point out. “The Lord came down and saved Joseph.”

“I doubt he ever opened a Bible,” Coffen said. “I wager what the man was after was some sort of official paper — a marriage license or birth certificate. Something like that.”

The others seemed interested in the idea of a birth certificate. “But why the hugger-mugger meeting at night in the park?” Prance asked.

“And how would Russell have got hold of someone else’s birth certificate?” Luten asked. “I must say it sounds like the sort of thing he would be mixed up in, though.”

“That could be it,” Corinne said. “He moved about a good bit. He might have come across a person using one name in one city and another somewhere else. Mind you I still don’t see how he got the person’s birth certificate.”

‘Stole it,” Coffen said. “But since he’s been moving about so much, there’s no saying who the P is that he was blackmailing.”

“We’re trying to make bricks without straws here,” Luten scowled.

“Why are we limiting ourselves to some sort of legal certificates?” Prance demanded. “No reason to think that was the ‘it’ in question. Considering what sort of man Russell was, it was more likely some proof he had got hold of that the victim was wanted by the law. Perhaps even an infamous criminal, an escaped murderer or rapist.”

“My head’s swimming,” Coffen said. “I’m weak from hunger is what it is. Didn’t get around to taking any dinner tonight. Pity Black isn’t here.”

“I’ll have Hawken bring sandwiches,” Corinne said, and pulled the bell cord.

Luten saw there was no hope for privacy with his fiancée and as they were making no headway with the case, he took an abrupt leave. Mrs. Ballard said to Corinne, “If you no longer need me ...” and quietly edged out of the room behind him. As soon as they were out the door Prance said to Corinne, “Did I notice a slight chill in the air? Trouble in paradise, my pet?”

“Oh, Luten has taken a pet because he’s afraid Lady Dunn might get me involved with Byron. Countess deLieven is spreading rumours. It seems Lady Dunn invited Byron to tea. She was with him at the exhibition at Somerset House. Hardly a romantic tryst.”

“I noticed Lady Dunn had Byron in her eye at Lady Melbourne’s rout,” Prance said. “Rather encroaching of her. I’m not exactly surprised that she wrote to him, but I am surprised Byron obliged her, though he does have trouble refusing a pretty lady anything.”

“A looker, is she?” Coffen asked with interest.

“If you care for that rather common type,” Prance said with a sniff, which had more to do with her making off with Byron than her manners. Then he turned to Corinne. “Is it a serious rupture between you and Luten, or merely a lovers’ spat?”

“Only a spat so far,” she said, “but if he thinks I mean to hop to his tune, he has another think coming.”

“Did he actually
forbid
you from seeing Lady Dunn?”

“No, but he suggested rather forcefully that I should drop her.”

“So of course you plan to continue seeing her,” he said, not a question but a statement.

Coffen said with a scowl, “Ignore him, Corrie. Luten didn’t say that for no reason. You may be sure there’s something amiss with the lady.”

“Well,” she said uncertainly, “I daresay she is not quite the thing, but she’s amusing company. Interesting.”

“Let me have a word with Byron, see what he thinks of her,” Prance said. “He is somewhat less demanding than Luten. If
he
thinks she’s shabby, then perhaps you should drop her. I happen to know she’s a pushy creature. Once she gets a toe in the door, she’ll be harder to drop.”

Corinne considered this a moment. It was true Lady Dunn had twice dropped in on her uninvited and been pushing for more outings together. “Very well,” she agreed, “but don’t bring Byron here. Luten is already in the boughs.”

“I’ll
try
to keep him away,” he said coyly. The rogue in him urged a different course. He hadn’t engineered a good spat between the lovers for months. When the sandwiches arrived, Prance left. It was not too late to drop in at one of his clubs. There was no telling, Byron might be there.

Coffen dug into the sandwiches. “Don’t pay him no mind. Tea or coffee would help wash this down. Any dessert?”

Coffen was on thorns to hear what Black had learned the night before. Black, wearing a satisfied smile, opened the door to him when he went to Corinne’s house to cadge breakfast the next day. They both ignored the niceties of “Good morning.”

“Any news?” Coffen asked.

“I might have a little something. She’s not down yet. Come into my wee room, away from big ears.” Black ordered coffee from the maid who was dusting in the drawing room and they went into his cubbyhole, from which he kept an eye on the street through the window. It wasn’t much larger than a linen closet, but it was comfortably arranged with two upholstered chairs, a table, a lamp and a carpet on the floor. The table held recent journals, a pack of cards and various gentlemen’s magazines. A shawl was draped over one of the chairs, for those long evenings when the wind was sharp. They made themselves comfortable, Black in the chair that gave a view of the window to keep an eye peeled for Luten.