Let's Talk of Murder (12 page)

She told Luten in detail about the visit, including the approaching auction ball. “You must get well enough to attend it, even if you can’t dance. I mean to donate that rather horrid Wedgewood tea service I never use.”

“Oh, am I invited, too?” he asked, chewing a grin. “I was afraid Lord Clare wanted you all to himself.”

“You don’t sound as if you would mind,” she said, with a playful pout.

“As long as it’s Clare you’re toying with, and not some more dangerous fellow, like Byron, I don’t mind.” Her breath caught in her throat. Did he know? How had he found out? No, he was smiling quite naturally. “But I’ll make a point of attending Clare’s ball, to keep an eye on the pair of you.”

He called for tea, and they talked until it was time for Corinne to go home and change for dinner. As she left, a page from Whitehall brought an answer from Brougham regarding the financing of the various Moregate charity institutions. Each project was run independently, with a manager who handled the finances. Doctor Harper was in charge of the Morgate Home for Unwed Mothers. It was supported by the members of the sect, with Lord Clare and his mama as special patrons. The finances were in order. There did not appear to be any shortfall indicating that someone was pilfering the money. There had been no complaints of ill treatment of any of the inmates. All appeared to be in order.

Yet Luten had to wonder at Lord Clare taking such a personal interest in the place, actually having an office there and taking an interest in each individual girl. He was known to gamble, but then what young buck didn’t? It was a common vice of the age. Fortunes were won and lost nightly around the card table. People bet on everything from the outcome of a horse race to what was called “The Marriage Stakes,” placing odds on whether a certain match would come off. There were no rumors of Clare’s being in dun territory. One of these days he would inherit his wealthy mama’s fortune as well.

At seven-thirty the Berkeley Brigade met at Luten’s mansion to share their gleanings over dinner. Prance, who never ate much and loved talking, led off the discussion.

“I spent my afternoon on a fishing expedition at the Albany, the scene of the crime, as you might say. I fear I caught only a gudgeon. Beau Harrison, a writer friend who does those rather acid reviews of plays, has rooms at the Albany, but unfortunately not close enough to Henry to monitor his comings in and goings out. Beau introduced me to the man who lives across the hall from Henry, a countrified fellow called John Huddlestone, who is a glorified clerk in a bank. I would have called him Johnnie Raw. He isn’t a regular resident, but has sublet the rooms from a cousin. Anyhow, this Huddlestone person insisted he had never seen a female call on Henry.

“There was one gentleman who called frequently. Huddlestone described him as a nob, but seemed to run out of words after that somewhat vague term. ‘Was he tall?’ I asked. ‘Tallish to middling.’ ‘Was he dark or fair of complexion?’ ‘Darkish to middling.’ ‘Was he handsome?’ ‘If you like that sort.’ ‘What sort?’ I demanded in rising frustration. ‘A dandy, wasn’t he?’ the fellow said, with a smirk at my cravat. Really, what is the Albany coming to? It used to be a place for gentlemen.”

“At least we know Henry did have one close friend,” Corinne said, to console him.

“Huddlestone didn’t happen to see the friend the evening Henry was murdered?” Luten asked.

“No, it seems he seldom leaves his rooms of an evening, but on that occasion he took into his head to go out on a spree with some friends. He didn’t reach home until ‘latish,’ whatever that means to a John Huddlestone.”

“This nob who visited Henry,” Luten said, “did he ever hear them quarreling?”

“I was just coming to that,” Prance scowled. “You have quite stolen my thunder, Luten. Yes, they had been quarreling one evening recently, but he couldn’t confirm that it was the actual evening Fogg was killed. He overheard an argument, not actual words, just angry shouting.”

“How long were they friends?”

“Johnnie Raw has only been residing at the Albany for six weeks. The nob was visiting at that time. On two occasions the friend left in a huff, slamming the door. On the first occasion he returned the same evening and stayed ‘latish.’ On the other occasion, Fogg went after him and brought him back.”

“We have to find out who this friends is,” Luten said. “Go back tomorrow, Prance, and call on some of the other fellows who live there. Perhaps Beau can help you. I wonder what they were arguing over.”

“And if blows led to a gunshot on the night Huddlestone was out on his spree,” Coffen added. “You’ve fair knocked the wind out of what I had to say, Prance.”

The others looked at him with interest. “About the size of the Morgate Home, and there only being two dozen girls there. It’s even bigger than I thought. There’s a whole wing at the back, the annex. And there’s a ladder outside, too.”

“What are you suggesting?” Luten urged.

“I don’t know. I’m just telling you the place must be half empty, yet there’s no shortage of girls in that condition. Why don’t they fill it up?”

“Perhaps they can’t afford to just yet,” Prance suggested. “They have to be fed and clothed, as well as roofed.”

“I never thought of that,” Coffen admitted. “Have you got anything, Luten?”

He outlined Brougham’s findings regarding the financing and told them of Prinney’s visit, which sent Prance into paroxysms of jealousy. “You will soon be dubbed Beau Luten at this rate,” Prance snipped.

Corinne outlined Lord Clare’s interest in the Morgate Home, and the auction ball that was approaching.

“There’s my chance to get rid of that ugly Chinese jug in my saloon,” Coffen said.

Luten gave a gasp of horror. “I hope you don’t mean the blue and white flask with the flying phoenix pattern! That’s from the Yuan dynasty. It’s priceless.”

“The only decent– the best piece in your entire house,” Prance added.

“The handle’s too small and it don’t pour worth a damn.”

Prance groaned, to think of a priceless piece being used for wine.

“If you’re planning to get rid of it, you can sell it for more than fifty guineas,” Corinne informed him. Coffen understood money better than art. “What are you going to donate, Prance?”

“I must consider the matter. I have a rather fine pearl cravat pin that I’ve taken in dislike. It disappears against a white cravat, but on the other hand, it looks well with a black stock for funerals. I also have a vast store of bibelots I’ve outgrown aesthetically. I’ve taken a certain small Greuze painting of a boy with a duck in aversion. The French genre school doesn’t really suit my decor. I had thought of sending it home to Granmaison to amuse Tante Phoebe. I’m not sure I want Clare’s guests to think it represents my taste.”

“They won’t,” Coffen said. “You wouldn’t be giving it away if you liked it. The question is, why did you buy it?”

“A temporary lapse of judgement, like your accidentally having one decent piece in your house.”

“If you mean that blue jug, I didn’t buy it. It was there when I inherited the place.”

“That explains it,” Prance said. “And you, Luten, what will you donate? Or will you not be attending the ball?”

“I plan to attend.” With a long gaze down the table to Corinne, he said, “It will be for Corinne to decide what she wants to be rid of, since she’ll soon be mistress here.” He bowed at her and added, “Anything she chooses, so long as it’s not myself.”

She said saucily, “And who in her right mind would pay fifty guineas for you, milord?”

“A hit!” he cried, clutching playfully at his heart. “A palpable hit.” This, too, was unlike Luten. She was happy to see him in such good spirits.

When there was only one lady at the table, the gentlemen forewent the traditional port and cigars and accompanied her to the drawing room after dinner for coffee.

Coffen was the first to leave. He rose with a flustered look that wouldn’t fool a child and said, “I’ve promised to visit my aunt tonight. She’s come down with a cold, poor soul.”

“Which aunt is that?” Corinne asked, as they were related, and the aunt might be some kin of hers as well.

“Aunt Marion. You wouldn’t know her. I had a note from her while I was out this afternoon.”

“You want to be sure you don’t catch her cold,” said Prance, who was extremely cautious in matters of health.

“I will, never fear. Mind it’s more a stomach complaint than a cold. Plus she has a touch of lumbago.”

“I hope she’s seeing a doctor!” Corinne said.

Prance gave a wave of his hand. “Sounds like a touch of hypochondria to me.”

“That as well. She’s falling apart. I must be toddling along. Aunt Mary will be waiting for me, A dandy dinner, Luten. What time are we having breakfast?”

“You are shameless, Coffen!” Prance charged.

“You’re right. I’ve been at Luten’s trough enough for one week. I’ll join you instead,” he said, and left.

Prance looked at the remaining couple. “Such a plethora of ailments as he hobbled his aunt with causes a doubt,
n’est-ce pas
? What is he really up to, I wonder ?”

“I noticed Aunt Marion becoming Aunt Mary,” Corinne said. “I never heard him mention either of them before. I’ll take a look out the window and see if Fitz goes for the carriage.” She went to the window. After a moment she turned around. “Fitz just ran out the door. He’s gone to fetch the carriage.”

Prance said, “I’d offer to follow him, but Byron has invited me to join him and some other writers at his place this evening. I expect Coffen is only going to pick up an actress.”

“You and Byron are becoming thick,” Luten said, smiling as he knew Prance’s interest in the poet.

“He quite insisted. But I can send a note begging off if–”

“Not at all. Run along. Corrie and I will keep an eye on Coffen.”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind. One shouldn’t eat and run.”

“That’s quite all right. You didn’t eat anything.”

“Au contraire!
I feasted on olives. They were delicious.” Prance left in a flurry of thanks for dinner and promised to call the next morning, “After I have fed Coffen.”

“I wish he hadn’t left,” Corinne said. “I really feel someone ought to follow Coffen.”

“Coffen’s not a child,” Luten scoffed.

“He is where women are concerned. You should have seen him making a cake of himself over Fanny.”

“He’s off to the green rooms.”

“No, it’s Fanny Rowan he has in his eye.” She sat, frowning a moment. Then she looked up to see Luten wearing a similar expression. “You don’t suppose he’s–”

“He mentioned a convenient ladder.”

“Oh dear! He’s set up a rendezvous with Fanny. He’ll get the poor girl in trouble.”

“She’s already ‘in trouble.’ That’s why she’s there. We’ll follow him,” Luten said.

“How can we? You can’t–”

“I can hobble to my carriage.”

“Shouldn’t we stop him from going instead?”

“We can’t forbid it. He’s not a child.”

Luten pulled the bell chord and ordered his carriage. Corinne felt a surge of excitement. This was more like it! Having Luten back in the game added to the thrill of it all. It was not as exciting with him
hors de combat
.

Evans first bundled Corinne into her shawl, then Luten into his many-collared greatcoat and handed him his cane. When the carriage drove up, they looked up the street to see that Coffen was not watching. Luten asked his driver to drive to the corner and follow Coffen’s carriage when it left his house.

They hadn’t long to wait. Within minutes, Coffen’s carriage came rattling along. He scuttled out of the house, looked up and down the street as if checking to see he was unobserved, then hopped into his rig and Fitz was off.

The carriage was so well sprung and Luten’s team of bloods so well behaved the occupants were scarcely aware of the motion as the sleek black barouche sped down the roadway. With velvet squabs to cushion their backs and a fur rug over their knees, they were as comfortable as if they sat on a sofa. The lighted mansions of the west end flashed past the windows unnoticed. Their attention was on the carriage ahead of them, that lurched and bucked under Fitz’s inexpert hands.

“He’s not going to see Fanny,” Luten said, as they followed the carriage eastward along Piccadilly toward the theater district. The streets were filled with carriages delivering their occupants to the many balls and routs, plays and concerts that made up the social calendar of the autumn Little Season. They could follow Coffen without being observed. “He’s going to the green rooms, as I thought.”

“Let’s continue following him a little longer, see if he doesn’t turn south on Haymarket,” Corinne replied.

At Haymarket, Coffen’s carriage continued east. “You’re right,” she said, with a sigh of relief. “He’s off to Covent Garden or Drury Lane. Imagine, we must be happy about that! We really must find a nice girl for him, Luten. It will be my first project, as soon as we solve Fogg’s murder.”

His head, in the darkness of the carriage, turned to her. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Countess?”

In days gone by, when Luten called Corinne Countess, it meant he was annoyed with her. His quizzical tone that evening, however, robbed the title of umbrage. The word and the tone combined relayed a subtle message–that he knew he had been a pompous ass in the past, that those days were over, and they were now free to make a joke of it. Or at least he was. Pleased with the progress, she gave him the answer he wanted.

“As soon as we solve Fogg’s murder, and are married. While you fiddle with your politics, I shall find Coffen a sensible girl and make him marry her.”

“Fiddle! Fiddle with politics? Is that any way to speak to a potential Prime Minister?” he asked, still in a quizzing vein.

“Brougham thinks they’ll choose you, then, if Prinney keeps his promise and brings the Whigs in?”

“It appears to be a consensus.” That was what had put him in this jovial mood! “But I take nothing for granted, including Prinney’s keeping his word. I’d feel more confident if he spent less time on Manchester Square, hearing the Bible according to Lady Hertford. Well, my pet, here we are, out on the town again, like old times. Where would you like to go? I have no invitations with me, but I daresay we wouldn’t be turned from the door if we attended one of the do’s I received invitations to. I can’t dance, but I can–and shall–keep a sharp eye on you as you jig it with all the handsomest gents.”