To Mourn a Murder (21 page)

Why was Bryon honouring him in this extraordinary fashion? Was it to announce that they two would soon be embarking for warmer climes? Did it have to do with their jointly writing a play? They had discussed the possibility. With this tantalizing puzzle to intrigue him, he thoroughly enjoyed the trip home.

Evening shadows were already lengthening when Prance's carriage drew in at Berkeley Square at four-thirty that afternoon. How good it was to be home again! To see the welcoming lights aglow in the windows, and know that Villier was busy abovestairs, brushing and pressing and laying out the evening's clothes. Luten's and Corinne's houses were also lit in anticipation of his arrival. Coffen's was dark–he'd be at Corinne's. His heart swelled to know he had such stunning news to impart. But first he must just refresh himself. He could not bring himself to call on a lady in a jacket rumpled from travel.

He would not make his grande toilette yet, of course. That would take hours. Just a fresh cravat and jacket, and a word with Villier to see that all was in order, as indeed it was. Trust Villier. Within a quarter of an hour he was at Corinne's front door. Black, ever vigilant, had seen him arrive and sent over word that the Berkeley Brigade awaited him at Lady deCoventry's house. Her ladyship would be honoured if he would join them for an informal dinner. That meant they didn't want him to take time to change. How impatient they were to see him! Nearly as impatient as he was to discover from them the details of the party with Byron. But he wouldn't ask and reveal his consuming curiosity. He would let them tell him.

He strode forth, head up, shoulders back, like a general returning from the wars in triumph. Black had the door open for him before he got across the street. He was greeted as if he'd been gone a month. "Good evening, Sir Reginald. Welcome home. A good trip, I hope?"

"Excellent, Black, thank you," he said, letting Black remove his coat.

Three pairs of eyes turned to him in excitement as he entered the salon. He stood a moment, luxuriating in the pleasure of anticipation, fixing it in his mind for future recollection. Corinne looked quite lovely this evening. That rose gown set off her cameo charms to perfection, and for once she wasn't plastered with an excess of jewelry. Luten, as usual, looked perfectly groomed and Coffen looked even more rumpled than usual. None of them had changed into evening clothes yet, and probably didn't intend to for an "informal" dinner. Prance disapproved of this sort of social laxity, but for a special occasion he would forgive them.

"The traveler is returned," he announced, sweeping a bow towards the grate, where they were all gathered.

Without even the courtesy of asking whether he had had a good trip, Coffen demanded, "Did you find out anything?" and Luten said, "Did you get my letter?" It was only Corinne who made him a proper welcome.

"Do come and sit by the fire, Reggie, and tell us all about your trip."

She gave him her own seat beside Luten, poured him a glass of wine and took the chair that Black rushed to set for her.

Prance accepted the wine, said, "Thank you, my dear," to Corinne, "and to answer your questions, gentlemen, yes and yes. I did receive your letter, Luten, and I believe I made a few discoveries of interest."

"What?" Coffen barked.

Prance would have preferred to give the tale its proper due, drawing out the story and adding all the details, but there was no stalling Coffen when he was in this mood.

"I found out who purchased Goodman's shop," he announced. The actor in him allowed a significant pause to examine each staring face before adding, "None other than Lord Jergen." His performance was rewarded with three lovely gasps of astonishment.

Luten was the first to recover. "Jergen! Are you sure?"

"I have it on the best authority. His mistress at the time, one Betsy Grolier. A vulgar little milliner, and pretty as can stare."

"Lady Jergen said he was seeing an actress called Rose Sommers," Coffen said.

"N
é
e Betsy Grolier."

"What do you mean, nay? It's what Lady Jergen told us."

"One and the same, Coffen. Rose Sommers was her stage name."

"Ah, I see, one of them nom de plumes."

"Close enough," Prance said.

Luten shook his head. "I can't believe Jergen–"

"Can you believe that Lord Jergen recently paid a visit to the George Inn on the road out of Brighton, and sliced out the register page for July of 1805?" Prance inquired.

"No need to answer. Rhetorical question," Coffen informed Luten. "He did, eh? There's a brand new copper-bottomed clue. How do you know, Reg?"

Prance went into a full account of his investigations and garnered all the kudos he would wish. "Splendid work, Reggie," Corinne praised. "Well done," the others echoed.

Then Luten took up his cane, rose and began pacing slowly. "What does this mean? Why would Jergen go to so much trouble to remove that proof of Mrs. Webber's rendezvous with her doctor when he knows we already know about it? He didn't do it to protect her. He must be protecting himself. Is it possible it was Lord Jergen, and not Mrs. Webber's doctor that she had a liaison with that summer?"

"I thought she was overdoing it. Her whole performance had the whiff of Covent Garden," Coffen mentioned.

"But why would she lie about the man involved?" Luten said to himself.

"Because she is now Lady Jergen's friend," Corinne suggested. "She couldn't admit to having an affair with her friend's husband."

Luten nodded. "That would explain it. Jergen was already keeping Rose Sommers, though. He hasn't much reputation as a womanizer. I would have thought one mistress at a time was his limit."

Prance winced in annoyance. He might have known Luten would start complicating everything. At this rate they'd never get around to discussing the party with Byron. "Jergen could hardly blackmail Mrs. Webber when he was equally open to blackmail himself, if he was the man involved," he said.

Coffen looked up from massaging his knee to say, "Why would Jergen use his own name if he was there with Webber anyway? Married men usually call themselves Mr. Smith or Jones when they're carrying on with a lightskirt. Odd he'd take her to a dump like the George as well. Mean to say, if his pockets were deep enough to buy out Goodman, he could have afforded a decent place for his featherbed jigging. I see your point, Reg, but why would he cut out that page if it didn't incriminate him? His proof that Mrs. Webber spent the night there with her lover was on that page. After all this time, it was the only proof. "

"Not at all. His proof was the billet doux from her doctor, which he purloined at that inn at Bath."

Coffen, who kept track of all the details, supplied names. "The Hart Inn. Andrew Hale was her doctor. You're right, Reg. That's his proof."

Prance acknowledged this with a curt, "Thank you, Coffen," and continued, "It's my theory that Jergen was there with
a
woman, but not Mrs. Webber. That's the only way it makes any sense to me. He removed the page not to protect Mrs. Webber's reputation, but to protect his own. And furthermore, if he was there and saw her–well, that's how he knew she was there. He's the Bee. He'd have no reason to suspect we'd be checking out the George and thus remove that one page if he's not the Bee. The victims and ourselves are all keeping mum about it."

"That's all true," Luten said, "But you're assuming it was Jergen who removed the page. We don't actually know that."

"Then why did he ask to see the register?" Prance asked, his gore rising at every objection.

"Keep your shirt on, Reg," Coffen said. "It ain't a fact till we prove it. I'm sure you did your best, but what Luten says makes sense. It would've been downright stupid of Jergen to drive his crested rig when he went to pull out the page. The Bee's supposed to be so sly, why didn't he hire a hackney? Mean to say, this points the finger straight at him. Jergen's the only lord involved. Looks like someone's impersonating him. Something havey-cavey here, Prance. Are you sure you got that part about the crested carriage right?"

"Quite sure," Prance said through thin lips. "The proprietor confirmed it and
my
description of Jergen. It would be overextending coincidence's notoriously long arm if some other lord fitting Jergen's description should pop out of the woodwork at this late date."

"I suppose it would," Coffen conceded, "all the same, I wish I could've gone myself."

Prance threw up his arms in exasperation. "There's gratitude for you. I spend two days hurtling through the damp and fog, visiting decrepit inns and consorting with lightskirts, and that's all you have to say? You wish you could have gone yourself. So do I wish it. Betsy Grolier would have been just your cup of tea, vulgar chit."

"No offence, Reggie," Coffen said at once. "I know how much you hate being put out. You found out all sorts of new clues. The trouble is, they just don't hang together."

"They hang together perfectly! We've known all along that all the mischief began at Jergen's household. We have solved the mystery of why we were called in. Lady Jergen is unaware that her husband is the Bee and didn't hesitate to call us. Jergen removed the page at the George because he was there with another woman that night, which is nothing but a red herring. Did I mention the infernal gall to draw a bee on the register he had plundered, taunting us? He did that to confuse us."

"I don't see yet what's wrong with the story, barring Jergen using his own rig, but it just don't go flat all around," was Coffen's summation. The questioning, dissatisfied expressions of the others seemed to agree with him. "You mentioned that Harrelson's name was in the book at the Norfolk around the same date. I wonder, now, if there's anything in that."

"Merely confirmation of what Mrs. Huston told us," Prance said.

"No, but I mean I wonder if Harrelson was the man at the George with Mrs. Webber, and ripped out the page at the George and left the one at the Norfolk to fool us. That'd mean he was calling himself Doctor Andrew Hale when he knew Webber. It's possible."

"The man who tore out the page drove a crested carriage and his description fit Jergen to a tee," Prance reminded him.

"That's what I'm saying," Coffen said. "Harrelson was a tall, dark-haired chap as well, according to Mrs. Huston.
She
thinks he's the Bee. And furthermore, she don't think Harrelson is his real name."

"He's been using it for seven years at least," Prance pointed out.

"What you mean is he
was
using it seven years ago. He might not be using it now. Or not have used it before or since, for that matter."

Prance gave a dismissing toss of his hands. "What name is he using now, then? Lord Jergen?"

"He could very well be. Mrs. Huston would know Jergen, since she's a friend of Lady Jergen, but Mrs. Huston never got a look at Harreleson, if you recall. And the daughter that did see him isn't in London, so wouldn't know Jergen. I don't know. P'raps it was Jergen, p'raps some other lord entirely, p'raps Danby. He's another tall, good-looking fellow. How long was Danby in India, does anyone know?"

"Long enough to make a fortune," was Prance's reply. "And he's been home for two years. I shouldn't think one could make a million in five years, or all the East Indiamen couldn't hold the younger sons sailing off to India. Besides, he doesn't drive a crested carriage."

"His uncle does," Coffen pointed out. "Could have borrowed it."

Luten listened then said, "One thing we can look into is who Jergen's secretary was seven years ago. It might have been Harrelson."

"Mrs. Huston said Harrelson was just in Brighton on holiday," Corinne reminded him.

"That's what he told Phoebe, along with other tales," Luten said.

"Thing to do," Coffen said, "find out if Jergen lost his secretary around that time. Mrs. Huston said Harrelson lit out then. Was gone from the Norfolk hotel when she went after him."

"I'll find out," Luten said, "and get a name as well. Someone at the House will remember."

"Harrelson wouldn't necessarily have left Brighton or Jergen's employ, if he worked for Jergen at all," Corinne said. "He might just have removed to another inn."

"Did you check any other inns, Reggie?" Coffin asked.

"I checked out the ones in town," he replied vaguely. "Harrelson's name wasn't listed in any other. He could have used any name, so that proves nothing. Why are we discussing Harrelson when it's crystal clear to me that Jergen is our man?"

"Clear as mud," was Coffen's comment, delivered with a sniff. "I knew I should've gone myself."

Like a good tactician, Prance knew that the best defence was offence. "What has the other three-quarters of the Berkeley Brigade discovered while I've been scrambling around Brighton?" he asked. "Your note was not very informative, Luten. I assume Miss Winchley has tumbled into the Bee's clutches. His victims until now have been married ladies. What has Miss Winchley done that he's holding her to ransom? I can't see that cold fish doing anything as dashing as having an affair. Yet I can't see her pilfering some trifle from a jewelry shop either, which your interest in Goodman's records implies. Do bring me up to date on what headway you have made in all this."

Luten explained briefly Miss Winchley's theft of the pearls and that the Bee had got hold of her mama's letter admitting it.

"A pity we ever taught the ladies to write," was Prance's remark.

"That was certainly an error on your part," Corinne shot back with a dangerous glint in her eye. "Now that we've mastered the secret of the pen, we may begin making laws and wars of our own, demanding our rightful place in society and recording our rightful place in history."

"The history essay should take you all of an hour to write," Prance said to his hostess. "You could begin with the delightful Borgia ladies–"

"And their husbands and brothers and fathers," she shot back.

"But it's the ladies we're discussing. Let us not forget the French queen who recommended cake to her starving subjects. Or will you start at the beginning, with Eve?"

"Oh no, those tales have already been written from the
gentleman’s
point of view."