To Mourn a Murder (11 page)

Coffen squinted his eyes and said, "B." When this didn't seem to enlighten his listeners he added, "Byron - it starts with B, like Napoleon."

"Like Bonaparte, you mean," Corinne said.

"Exactly. That's what's bothering you is it, Luten, the coincidence?"

"No, what's bothering me is how he invariably leaps to Lady Callwood's defence. Why doesn't he want us to investigate her? And which of you is going after him?"

"This is utterly ridiculous," Prance scoffed. "Furthermore, Luten, was it really necessary of you to mention his club foot? You must know he's extremely sensitive about it."

“I was trying to make him comfortable. I mentioned both our sore limbs.”

"It's hardly the same thing. Your ankle will soon be better. For poor Byron the agony both emotional and physical is a life-long affliction."

Black ducked his head into the room. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation, your lordship," he said, addressing his words to Luten. "Since your carriages are all in for the night, I sent Jackie out to blow the whistle for a hackney. It's here. I watched which way his lordship's rig turned. If you put a wiggle on, you'll be able to follow him."

"I'll go," Coffen said, and picking up another sandwich, he hurried out.

Prance sniffed and said, "I wish to submit a formal objection to this procedure. I do not for one moment believe Byron is guilty of anything except being so handsome and dashing that other gentlemen," and here he glared at Luten, "are jealous of him."

In an effort to calm the troubled waters, Corinne said, "This is ridiculous. If he's innocent, Prance, what harm is there to follow him?"

"He
is
innocent! He's the one who brought us into this. I dislike to have my friends treated in this manner. Don’t tell me
you
think he's guilty too?"

"Of course not." She gave a quick, apologetic glance at Luten. "But what is the harm in proving it?"

Luten said no more, but he noticed that Byron had already stirred up dissension in the ranks. Luten was annoyed with Prance for questioning his decision, and with Corinne at so quickly proclaiming she believed the poet innocent. If he didn't quash the rebellion in the beginning, he'd end up losing his Brigade—and possibly his fiancée.

"Your objection has been noted, Prance. I stand by my decision." He waited for an answer. When Prance didn't storm out but only pouted, he turned to Corinne. "It's late, my dear. We'll let you get to bed now."

"I'm just leaving," Prance said. He bowed to Corinne and headed for the door.

Luten turned a questioning gaze on his fiancée. His eyes toured from her black curls down over her plain black bombazine gown to her walking shoes. "Have I told you how charming you look in black, Countess?" he asked, but there was no flattery in his accent. Luten only called her Countess when he was annoyed with her. His knowing eyes held knowledge and–was that a twinkle of amusement? It was all right, then. He knew she had followed them, and didn't mind.

He took his leave of her and hurried after Prance, who had already crossed the street. Knowing he wouldn't sleep, Luten read the news in the journal until he heard the sounds of a carriage in the street, then he went to the door and called Coffen inside. "Did he go straight home?" he asked.

"No, but he didn't call on Lady Callwood either. He went to his club–Alfred's. I waited half an hour, then came home. I think, myself, he's all right, Luten."

"Very likely, but better safe than sorry."

"There was one curious thing. Danby was at the club as well. He left shortly after Byron arrived. His excuse for being at Newman's stable t'other day was that he was hiring a rig. He'd had an accident with his. But he was still using a hackney cab tonight. Of course he may not have found anything to suit him at Newman's. A bit of a coincidence the way he keeps turning up.”

“He's too rich to bother with such petty pilfering as this."

"So he says. You could look into it, eh? Mean to say, ask around at the House if anyone knows what he's doing with his blunt. He wouldn't leave it in Consols at small interest. Fellows with that kind of money usually do things with it. Business things."

Luten listened with interest, "How long after Byron arrived did Danby leave?"

"About ten minutes. Plenty long enough for them to have had a word, if that's what you're getting at, that they'd arranged to meet there."

"I'll make a few enquiries about Danby tomorrow. Meanwhile, Coffen, it might be best if you delay your trip to Brighton and keep an eye on Danby."

"What about Byron?"

Luten's nostrils flared. "I fancy Prance will be holding his hand."

"There's a few more things we ought to be looking into as well. Find out more about all the victims' servants, that sort of thing."

"Corinne might be of some help there. She could ask the ladies to tea and quiz them discreetly."

"Yes, you don't want to leave her out entirely or she'll end up getting herself into mischief. Not that that old black gown she was wearing–"

"I noticed the black gown and walking shoes. I hope she had the sense to take Black with her tonight."

"He'd not let her go alone. A good man, Black, even if his name does start with a B."

Luten smiled at this irrelevancy, then said, "I wonder where the man who killed Queen Mab got those dozen or so bees he sprinkled over the corpse. If Lady Callwood was telling the truth, I mean."

"A good question. Bees don't grow on trees. A fellow might get one or two in a park, though I haven't seen any about in this season. But a dozen? Sounds like a beekeeper. I'll bear it in mind."

The investigation went forward the next day. Coffen undertook to question the servants of all the Berkeley Brigade and found out that Luten's upstairs maid, Meg, was cousin to Lady Callwood's cook. Meg was given an afternoon off to call on her cousin. None of their coachmen knew Danby's coachman, or even what sort of rig Danby drove.

Black, who had a broad acquaintance among the butling staff of London, was on terms with Lady Jergen's butler, Copeland. He called on Copeland that afternoon, ostensibly to ask his opinion on some wine Lady deCoventry was planning to lay down. Copeland considered himself a connoisseur of wines. No one was familiar with Mrs. Webber's staff. It seemed the elder Mrs. Webber kept her servants on such a short leash they seldom got out of the house.

Neither Meg nor Black could discover any close link between the servants of the victims' houses. Copeland confirmed that Danby seemed high in the stirrups. A good tipper and a jolly sort of fellow. He couldn't tell Black anything about Danby's groom. Danby hadn't had a carriage when he was staying with the Jergens. After he left them, he had sent Lord Jergen a couple of dozen bottles of claret that pleased both the butler and his master mightily.

Corinne had no luck either. Lady Callwood was not free to come to the tea party that afternoon. She didn't give a reason. The other two ladies came, but when the subject turned to servants, Mrs. Webber said her mother-in-law's had been with the family forever, and it was virtually impossible that they were involved in the demands for money. Lady Jergen had only good to say of her servants as well.

It was confirmed by everyone Luten spoke to that Danby was up to his knees in gold, but just what he was doing with it was uncertain. He had discussed investing ten or twenty thousand in a shipbuilding company with Lord Eldon, but hadn't done it in the end. He was said to have an option on a huge tract of land across the Thames which he was going to develop into cottages, but again no details were known. It was all rumour and hearsay.

When Prance called on the poet that morning, Fletcher told him that Byron was visiting Lady Melbourne. And when Prance returned in the afternoon, he was greeted by the old yellow hound, Abu. The door was ajar and the friendly hound lunged at him. Prance leapt back to save his jacket, but his trousers got a mauling. Fletcher soon appeared and called Abu off.

Further unpleasantness awaited Prance inside. Byron had Gentleman Jackson with him. The boxing master was just removing a gaudy embroidered vest. When he invited Prance to stay and watch their practice and he'd give him a round free of charge, Prance remembered an urgent appointment.

Byron accompanied him to the door and said, "You can tell Luten that neither Mrs. Webber nor Lady Callwood uses Appleby as her man of business. Lady Callwood's man is Anderson. Lady Melbourne tells me Mrs. Webber has a relative who handles her small affairs. No connection there, I'm afraid."

"It was Coffen's idea. I didn't think anything would come of it."

"I ran into Danby at my club last night," Byron continued. "A friend of mine, Cam Hobhouse, was with him. Danby invited me to sit down to cards with him. Hobhouse hinted me away. In fact no one there was eager to give Danby a game. He has the reputation of being exceedingly lucky at the table. No one mentioned the words shaved cards or Captain Sharp, however, even after he left."

Prance, having learned from Coffen over breakfast of Luten's interest in a possible connection between Danby and Byron, went running back to Berkeley Square to inform Luten that Byron had voluntarily mentioned Danby, which he obviously wouldn't have done if it had been a secret meeting. He also told him that neither Mrs. Webber nor Lady Callwood used Appleby as her man of business.

Luten nodded his satisfaction. "Byron is dining with the Hollands this evening. Holland is trying to exert pressure on him to speak in the House again. If you're free for dinner, Prance, do join me. The others are coming. We can have a good discussion and decide where we go from here."

Prance chose to take offence at this. "I would have come, even if Byron weren't busy!" he sniffed. "You make it sound as if I'm chasing after him."

"That was not my meaning at all. I rather thought it was Byron who was chasing after you."

Flattered by this notion, Prance relented and said, "Perhaps I have let him distract me from more important duties recently. I refer, of course, to the wedding arrangements. I thought perhaps a Christmas wedding would be convenient for you, as the House won't be sitting over the holidays."

"An excellent idea! No need to tell Corinne why we've chosen that date. She'll manage to turn it into an insult."

"The ladies can find fault in anything!" Prance said, quite back in curl. He went happily home, savouring Luten's remark that Byron was running after him. As he picked stray cat hairs from the sofa, he thought he had been a little hard on Luten recently. He was really a fine fellow. Byron running after him! Now if he could only get him to say it in public!

He lifted Petruchio from the pillow and placed him on his knee, where the cat immediately began to sharpen his claws on Prance's trousers. But it wasn't Petruchio who had caused that deep claw mark. It was Byron's filthy hound. Really, one ought not to let his dogs run free to maul his guests. He had a glass of wine while playing with Petruchio, then went abovestairs to discuss with Villier, his valet, the important matter of his evening toilette.

Villier's sharp eyes narrowed at the mark on his buckskins. "That cat!" he tsk'd. "I've spent
hours
brushing hairs off your jackets."

"You wrong Petruchio. Byron's dog is the culprit in this case. Perhaps a gentle abrasive of some sort can remove the mark."

"I'll try an ultra fine sandpaper. Talcum will lessen the abrasion. And I'll give them a good brushing after. But do
try,
milord, to be a little careful in future."

Villier was allowed to call Sir Reginald "milord" in private. They both knew a baronet had no right to the title. Prance told himself it pleased Villier to think he worked for a lord, and it certainly pleased Prance to be called one, even if only in the privacy of his dressing room.

He marveled again that Luten had refused a dukedom, knowing full well that it would never be offered to him again, unless by some miracle he joined the army, became a general and conquered Napoleon.

How could he refuse the offer? Such integrity. Really he was an amazing man. Though to be sure his refusal was causing Prinney and the Tories a good deal of razzing. Brougham had seen that the story was fed to the press.

Perhaps he should take a more active interest in politics himself. Stand for M.P. But then he would have to waste hours in the House listening to boring speeches about things he didn't understand or care about, and be pestered for favours by his neighbours when he went home to Granmaison. No, he was much too busy for that sort of thing. His talents lay in the field of the arts.

Now what should he wear this evening?

Corinne's companion, Mrs. Ballard, accompanied the countess to dinner at Lord Luten's that evening. It was one of her least favourite duties, second in dread only to dinner at Sir Reginald's, where some outlandish dish she didn't know how to tackle or even how to pronounce was sure to be served. Sir Reginald was always on the leading edge of any new fad or fashion. The fare at Luten's would be familiar at least, and certainly well prepared. It was the conversation she dreaded.

She never knew quite what they were talking about. Worse, their talk was often naughty, verging on the improper in Sir Reginald's case. Indeed she had a suspicion that if she did entirely understand all the bits of Latin and French and other languages he threw in, it would go beyond improper to licentious. She would make sure to sit beside Coffen Pattle. He could be counted on to keep a civil tongue in his head. There was a fair chance of being inundated with wine or gravy, but a soiled gown was a small price to pay for the comfort of a morally respectable dinner partner.

At dinner Luten sat at the head of the table with Corinne at his right. What a handsome couple they made, like a princess and prince charming out of a fairy tale. No wonder Corinne was so anxious to get him to the altar. Prance, sitting on her other side, was the wicked genie who would keep them apart if he could.

Mrs. Ballard sat on Luten's left side. He would insist on directing a little conversation to her, but he wouldn't badger her with difficult subjects, just inquire for her health, as he always did. She would have something to say, for once, after her recent ordeal with a tooth drawer. Just what role Coffen played in the fairy tale was unclear. A fairy godfather, perhaps, disguised as a troll.