To Mourn a Murder (20 page)

"Cat got your tongue?" Betsy said, drawing Prance from his untimely reverie with a poke of her elbow into his ribs.

"I've just remembered," he said, striking his forehead with the heel of his hand and assuming an air of deep chagrin. "I have a dinner appointment this evening. You're so delightful you put it clean out of my mind." Her face stiffened to annoyance. "At the Prince's pavilion," he added to suggest the dinner was practically a royal command.

"Coo," she said, impressed.

"May I see you tomorrow?"

"Or later tonight?" she suggested.

"One can't leave until the Prince has left," he said with a sigh, "and that might be three or four in the morning if they get playing cards."

"Tomorrow then," she said, rolling her eyes to indicate the utter ennui of her days. "Business is slow as molasses this time of year."

He rose, drawing some gold coins from his pocket and placing them quietly on the table. He had very little intention of returning, and wanted to repay Betsy for her time and information. His fastidious nature recoiled from making love to her, but he was human enough to feel pity for her.

"You have a charming shop. I'll recommend it to my friends who come to Brighton," he said.

Her eyes lit with interest. "Does Lord Byron ever come here?"

"No doubt he will, when I boast to him of the treasure I've discovered." He lifted her white hand to his lips and whispered a kiss on it, then retrieved his outer garments. With a twirl of the
écharpe
around his neck he went out into the cold, clammy night.

Darkness had fallen while he was within. He was elated at his discovery. Dispatching this news to Luten would excuse him from making any further investigations that night. He would make a quick tour of the inns in the morning and leave for London by noon. He knew from the past that Luten had a small but interesting library in his house on Marine Parade and an excellent cellar. He had earned a night before a blazing grate with a book and a bottle of claret to keep him company.

He felt warm tears pool in his eyes as he was driven home. Something in Mam'selle had called to mind what Prance considered the one true love of his life, the Comtesse Chamaude, a real French lady. She, too, had been aggressive in her sexual advances, but never with that touch of the gutter. He had never known such fulfillment as in her arms. Their affair had been brief but of an unparalleled excitement never before imagined, much less achieved. There was a sort of poetic beauty to the fact that death had snatched her away from him at the height of the affair. Murdered in cold blood. Their love could not have got better, and might have got less enchanting over time.

Then his mind turned to the party tomorrow evening, and he forgot his unforgettable countess.

"Why can't Pelkey take it?" Villier asked his master when Prance handed him the important letter he had written to Luten, and informed Villier he was to hire a mount at the stable and ride post haste to London. "Because I shall need him to drive me back to London tomorrow."

"Who will take charge of your toilette while I'm gone?"

"It is a problem, of course," Prance allowed, fingering his chin. His toilette was no trifling matter. "Since I shan't be seeing anyone important, I shall just have to make do with Pelkey's assistance."

"Pelkey! Pelkey's assistance! I would sooner leave your top-boots in the hands of a butcher."

"Your fears cannot be greater than my own on that score," Prance assured him. "Had I foreseen the necessity I would have brought a footman with me and spared you this trial, Villier. But you must stand by me. This is an emergency. Lives are at stake."

"Fiddlesticks. The Bee is only after money. He hasn't killed anyone," Villier sniffed. Villier was Prance's confidant in all matters. Like his master, he enjoyed these emotional exchanges and played them to the hilt.

"We may prevent that tragedy if you get to London in time," Prance replied in a gently chiding manner. He knew, and Villier knew, that the latter deserved a good scolding. But Villier was in the boughs and a sulky valet, especially with Byron's party in the offing, required coddling.

Prance had not yet told Villier of the party. He now revealed the great surprise. "You really ought to be in London tomorrow morning in any case to prepare my toilette for the party Byron is throwing in my honour," he said, taking care to place no emphasis on the magical name, but uttering it as calmly as if he were saying "Luten's party" or "Lady deCoventry's party." The name provided its own emphasis.

This excuse was much more acceptable to Villier than the possible loss of lives. No inconvenience was too great when it came to his master's sartorial reputation. With Byron as host there was no saying what crowned or tiara'd heads would see his work. It was not only his master's aim for Sir Reginald to be the best turned out gentleman in London. Villier's reputation also rode on Sir Reginald's slender shoulders (discreetly eked out with padding.)

"Lord Byron throwing a party for you!" he cried. "Why did you not tell me sooner, milord? We must discuss your toilette."

Prance replied in a hushed tone to indicate the gravity of the situation. "Such is the importance of this letter, Villier, that the party totally slipped my mind," he lied. "I must leave the entire matter of tomorrow evening's toilette in your capable hands. Jacket, cravat, cravat pin, waistcoat, slippers–you must decide, bearing in mind the importance of the occasion."

This was an unheard of honour. Sir Reginald always took the keenest interest in choosing his outfits, right down to the shade of his handkerchief. Prance did not use snuff, but he carried a snuff-box for an excuse to use a coloured handkerchief. One did not, of course, use a white handkerchief when taking snuff.

The echo of a smile moved Villier's lips. "Very well, milord. I shall leave for London at once," he said, and took the letter without further squabbling.

The money handed to him to cover the cost of hiring a mount included a generous pourboire, accompanied by a rush of solicitude. "Make sure you have a hot bath the minute you arrive, Villier, for the night is chilly. Sleep as late as you like in the morning. You will still have plenty of time to arrange my toilette."

Eyes glowing like a warrior, Villier declared, "I shall be up with the fowl, milord!"

While Villier battled the elements, Prance enjoyed his well-earned evening before the grate with a bottle of Luten's best claret at his elbow and a copy of miscellaneous quotations from Horace in his hands, through which he rooted to find suitable phrases to amuse Byron tomorrow night.

"Nunc est bibendum"
might suit. "Now is the time for drinking." That might be slipped in before quaffing a glass of wine at the party.
"Ad unguem factus homo",
"a man without a flaw." No, hardly appropriate considering the clubfoot–and the man's morals for that matter. "O
noctes cenaeque deum!"
"Oh nights and suppers of the gods!" was a definite possibility. His eyelids fluttered, and before he fell asleep he went upstairs.

Really it was the devil of a nuisance not having Villier with him. The whole tedious business of hauling off one's boot and hanging up jackets–to say nothing of having to pack his own bag in the morning. He had decided against using Pelkey after all. No matter how proper his personal habits–and Prance was an ogre for cleanliness in all his servants—a groom always carried that lingering whiff of the stable.

He awoke to another cold, gray, drizzling day. Before leaving Brighton he visited three inns and with the expenditure of a good deal of money was allowed a peek at the registers at two of them. Mr. Brunei's name did not appear in either of them. Mr. Edward Harrelson had indeed put up at the Norfolk when Mrs. Huston said he had. Not knowing what else he was looking for, he found absolutely nothing of interest, unless one could call it interesting that Beau Brummell had stayed two nights at the Bedford. One would have expected him to stay at the Prince's pavilion. In his eagerness to return to London, Prance decided three tries were enough. He would stop at the George on his way home.

Mrs. Partridge was kind enough to fill his thermoses for him and warm the bricks before he left. His mind had already run ahead to London before the carriage left Brighton. Pelkey had his orders to stop at the George. It seemed a great waste of time but Coffen would berate him if he didn't. Pelkey found the half-timbered inn without difficulty, just where Coffen had said it would be. The mulberry tree was still standing, grown to a great height now. At least it looked like a mulberry. The few remaining leaves blowing in the wind were the right heart shape.

Three or four travelers were taking a late breakfast in the dining area. The stench of bacon and the smoke from the grate made Prance feel quite ill.

He decided it was worth another guinea to get a quick look at the registry without enduring what would be, no doubt, a very bad cup of coffee. The proprietor, a Mr. Podey, a stout, hardy man of the sort who wore a poorly cut broadcloth jacket and shouted as if everyone were deaf, proved bribable. He rifled under the counter and drew out a book with a black leather cover and the year 1805 stamped on it. At least it wasn't dusty.

Podey pushed aside a welter of papers on his desk and allowed Prance to sit down to peruse the register. Prance turned a few pages, then gave a start of alarm. There was a page missing! Cut neatly out with a blade. It covered the last days of June and the beginning of July. He called Podey, who stood at the reception desk shouting a welcome at a man, a pig farmer to judge by the aroma.

"I say, Podey, there's a page missing here."

Podey came running, fingered the cut edge and said, "So there is. Now who could of done that? I wonder if he's been at the others." He ran and drew other old registers from under the counter. Prance noticed the others were liberally coated in dust. Podey flipped through them. "They seem to be intact," he said, frowning.

"When is the last time you examined them?"

"The day I put them under the counter. I'd no reason to go over them, had I?"

"It's very odd," Prance said and turned the page to see if more pages were missing. At the top of the next page was a sketch of a bee. His heart gave a jump of excitement. The page must have been cut out recently, since the Bee began his filthy tricks in London. Coffen would have realized at once the importance of this one ledger not being dusty like the others. How was it possible a man who could hardly speak the King's English could be so sharp in other areas?

"May I see your present register?" he asked, and Podey brought it to the desk. Prance started at the last entry and worked back, but found no suspicious entries. If the Bee had been there, he had used an alias.

"What are you looking for, sir?" Podey asked.

"I don't know. This client from London, A.E. Thomson, what did he look like?"

"Old Alfie Thomson? He looks like the king. Been coming here forty years to see his daughter and her kiddies. Grandkiddies as well now. Don't tell me Alfie has gone and got hisself into trouble?"

"No. Are all your customers known to you?"

Podey scanned the register. "These two Fallon ladies, they never stopped here before. They're the sisters of our new clergyman at St. Andrew's."

"I think we can absolve the Fallon ladies of any wrongdoing. Anyone here you don't know?"

"I've known them all a good while. They're regulars, if that's what you're asking me."

Prance decided to describe Lord Jergen, as he had bought out Goodman's and was Prance's favourite suspect. "How about a tall gentleman, dark hair, blue eyes? A good build, smart dresser. He'd weigh about thirteen stone. Might have been driving a crested carriage."

"Ah, him. I had a fellow answering that description in for lunch–when was it? About a week ago, but he didn't book a room so he's not listed. A fine gent. I noticed him in particular for I don't usually get what you'd call quality here. Now that you mention it—" Podey stopped, frowning.

"Did he ask to see your old books?"

"No, but he asked to use my desk to write a letter. He might of got at them then. It being the lunch hour, I was busy in the tavern."

"Thank you, Podey. I think I've learned what I wanted to know." He tipped his hat and returned to his carriage to begin the long trek to London.

He pondered what he had learned as he was driving along. The reason he had asked to see the register was to check that Mrs. Webber had spent the night there with her doctor, as she claimed. So what did it all mean? Did the missing page confirm that she'd been here with her lover, or did it imply that Mrs. Webber had lied, that she
hadn't
spent that night there? Why would Jergen want to remove that evidence? Or had Mrs. Webber fibbed about the man she had had an affair with? Was it not her beloved doctor, but someone else, perhaps even Lord Jergen? Why else would he be at such pains to slice out the incriminating page? But then he would hardly blackmail her for having an affair with himself. No, her lover was probably Brunei, as she said. Was it possible Jergen had removed the page to protect her after she paid up? He was always punctilious about returning the incriminating letters.

Or was it possible that
Jergen
himself had been there the same night with some other female? Was he enjoying himself there with Mam'selle Grolier, or one of her sister actresses? And how had he got wind of all the various ladies’ indiscretions? Lady Jergen was a talker. He must have figured it out over the years.

In any case his own trip had been wildly successful. He had discovered that Jergen bought Goodman's Jewelry Shop, and therefore had access to the incriminating letter regarding the pearl necklace she had pocketed. He had been in Brighton seven years ago and might have picked up the gossip about Phoebe Huston and Harrelson. If he had been at the inn the night of Mrs. Webber's indiscretion, he would know that secret as well. The case was as good as solved. It remained only to find the proof.

With such a wily customer as the Bee, that would not be easy. In any case there was nothing more he could do till he reached London, so he twirled his
écharpe
around his neck and gave himself over to a delightful contemplation of the evening ahead. He wondered what jacket Villier would select for him, and what accoutrements. He really should try to get a few hours sleep so he would be all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the party.