To Mourn a Murder (23 page)

"Yes, that is certainly her warbling laugh. She
would
wear scarlet, the hoyden. There! Corrie is going to have a word with the lady beside Lady Callwood. Now who could she be? Lord Deveril arranged the party. It might be his sister, and the man with her would be her husband, Lord Horwich, which suggests they're all upstanding citizens, even if the men are politicians."

They chatted idly, sipped soda water and watched the show in the apartment and the ballroom below. As the evening progressed and the throng indulged in a deal of wine, the crowd grew rowdy, but still no note came for Miss Winchley.

"Nearly midnight," Byron said. "Is it possible the Bee has discovered our stunt and isn't going to make his move?"

"He might be waiting for the fireworks outside."

When the music stopped and the fireworks were announced, the throng began moving towards to the staircase. Byron offered Prance his arm. "This could be it, Miss Winchley. Are you ready?"

"Ready—and waiting these past hours." He batted his fan and added, "Not that it hasn't been delightful chatting to you, milord."

"We must do this again sometime," Byron replied. "Say next century, same time, same place."

Luten rushed Corinne forward to fall into line behind them as they went down the staircase. "Was that Lady Callwood in the scarlet domino?" Prance asked.

"Yes, Deveril's party," Corinne replied. "Lady Jergen is there as well, but not with Danby. Jergen got wind of it and put his foot down. Lady Jergen treated him to a bout of tears and he agreed to bring her himself."

"Interesting! Keep an eye on Jergen."

"No word from the Bee?" Luten asked Prance.

"Not a whisper of a buzz."

"Then he plans to strike during the fireworks. We'll be watching. Take care."

A portion of Oxford Street had been closed to traffic for the occasion. The show began with a rant by an actor accusing Guy Fawkes, who hung in effigy above a pile of wood, of his crime of planning to blow up the Houses of Parliament. The crowd cheered as the bonfire was lit and the straw dummy roared up in flames. Prance wished he had his paint box with him. It was like a scene out of those later paintings of Goya's—
Madhouse
perhaps, or
A Tribunal of the Inquisition.
The ball of fire hissed and roared in the blackness of the night. It might have been a depiction of Hades, with the effigy of Guy Fawkes a doomed soul dangling in the flames. The fire cast eerie, dancing lights on the masked figures watching it, lending them an added air of menace.

Those in the front row felt the blast of heat from the flames. As the perspiration began trickling down his forehead, Prance removed his mask for a moment to wipe away the moisture.

Luten's party stood behind Prance and Byron, with one row of watchers between. Coffen, dissatisfied with this obstruction, edged his way forward for a better view. "Get that mask back on," he scolded. "You'll give the whole show a way."

"I kept my face covered with my handkerchief."

"
I
saw you."

As the straw effigy was consumed by the flames, a cannon rumbled, igniting the first volley of fireworks. It was impossible not to watch as sparkling comets streaked into the black sky, exploding in a million fiery stars that fell to earth in a shower. A red Catherine wheel with yellow spokes drew loud "Ooh's" of approval. Jets of orange flame, spiraling snakes, red stars and phosphorescent blasts of colour exploded overhead, accompanied by the cannon boom below.

It was magic of the showy sort Prance doted on, and no man with blood in his veins could completely ignore. The ladies squealed as the shower of fire streaked down towards them, to dissipate before landing on their heads. Prance gazed at the show, wondering if he dared suggest fireworks for Luten's and Corinne's wedding. No, Luten was a traditionalist. He would want that for the birth of his first son. When the display was over and the crowd had begun to disperse, he and Byron joined Luten's party.

"A dry run," Byron said. "What can have happened?"

"It was Prance taking off his mask that gave the show away," Coffen said with an angry snort.

"It wasn't off for five seconds! I kept my handkerchief over my face while I did it. I was going blind, with the perspiration dripping into my eyes."

"What should we do?" Byron asked, looking at Luten.

"We might as well get Miss Winchley home." Miss Winchley emitted a sigh of frustration. "No doubt you'll hear from the Bee again, possibly tomorrow," Luten said to her. "Let us know, and we'll work with you again. At least he didn't get your money. You can return it to Miss Winchley, Prance."

"I wonder if the Bee don't plan to hold her up on her way home," Coffen said. "He struck earlier than we thought before. P'raps this time he plans to strike after we think it's all over and lower our guard,"

Luten clamped him on the shoulder. "You're a genius, Pattle. That's exactly what he has in mind. The question is, what do we do? If we follow too closely behind Prance's carriage, he'll know it's us and won't strike."

"Why don't I get into the rig with Prance and Byron and you take the ladies home? The three of us men ought to be able to handle one bee."

"But your knee, Coffen," Corinne said.

"Dash it, I don't shoot with my knee. Let's go. He'll be waiting for us along the way, the sneak. We'll see you at home, Corrie. Have Black get some food ready. I'm starving. Send for the carriage, Prance."

"It's hardly a lady's place," Prance pointed out.

"I'll do it," Byron said, and left.

"We'll wait at my house," Corinne said to Miss Winchley, and Luten called for his rig.

As soon as Luten delivered the ladies to Berkeley Square he turned the carriage around and headed to Curzon Street, arriving just in time to see his hunting carriage leave Winchley's house. If the Bee had stung, it was over. He was too late to help. He returned to Corinne's house, to be met by a row of glum faces in the drawing room. The others had removed their dominoes and masks, Prance had brushed his hair and rolled down his pantaloons.

"He got away with the money!" Luten said, trying to rein in his frustration.

"No, he didn't even try," Prance said, and propped his head in his gazing at the carpet. He was so disappointed he was actually sitting in the chair, rather than perched on an arm as he usually did. "I feel like the farmer's daughter who went to the pea patch dressed in her best scarlet gown, ready to fight for her virtue, and no one came to oblige her.

"Your gown wasn't scarlet. It was green," Coffen said.

Prance just rolled his eyes. "If we're going to be pedantic, let us go all the way. It wasn't a gown, it was a domino."

"And it wasn't the pea patch either. Dash it, Reg, I knew all along it was one of those meta– things."

"Metaphor is the word you're grasping for. The point is, no one stopped us as we drove to Miss Winchley's house." He turned to continue his explanation to Luten and Corinne. "We alit, all tense and ready for a confrontation. Byron walked me to the door like the gentleman he is. If the Bee was going to attack, that was his last chance. He didn't. Nothing happened. We lingered at the doorway long enough to determine we weren't being watched, then we got back in the carriage and came here."

"He saw you take off the mask at the fireworks," Coffen said again.

Prance, tired of hearing this, said, "Then we must assume you are the Bee, Pattle, as you're the only person who saw me."

"Don't be foolish," Coffen scowled. "The only other thing I can think of is that he knows every move we're making and he's waiting for Miss Winchley to go home from here. That'll give him one more crack at her."

Luten looked interested. "He's always one step ahead of us. He may have realized the person in the green domino wasn't Miss Winchley and have followed us here, rather than follow you to her house. If that's the case, he's still out there," He turned to Miss Winchley. "We'll take every precaution when you leave."

Corinne said, "Perhaps you'd rather stay here for the night, Miss Winchley? I could send a note to your parents."

Coffen cleared his throat, casting wary glances towards Byron. "Might not be a good idea. Mean to say, they might suspect some havey-cavey business. No offence, Byron."

"He means my wretched reputation precedes me," Byron explained to Miss Winchley, "and I expect he's right."

Miss Winchley blushed prettily and said, "It's late. I ought to be leaving."

"We'll accompany you home," Prance said, rising. "Or should I resume the green domino in hopes of being attacked by the Bee?"

"We'll give it another try," Luten said.

"I'll have the ransom money ready," Prance said, rifling in the domino pocket. He reached into the pocket and drew out a yellow packet.

Miss Winchley stared at it in confusion. "But that's not—I had the money in a brown wrapper."

A ripple of consternation swelled as the group moved closer to see what Prance held. As he turned it over to open it, they saw the bee sketched in black on the yellow paper.

Corinne gasped and grabbed Miss Winchley's arm. "That's his sign! A bee! He's done it again."

Prance tore the package open, to see a stack of paper the size and shape of the bank notes, but cut from journals. They all stared, speechless for a moment, then all began talking at once.

"It's impossible!"

"How could he—"

"When did this happen?"

"It was taking off the mask that did it."

"It was not taking off the mask!" Prance shouted. "He thought he was robbing Miss Winchley. This was obviously all arranged in advance. He didn't cut up this paper at the party. He brought it with him. The question is, when did he substitute it for the money in my pocket? I never had the domino off my back." He turned to Byron. "No one came to our table except the waiter, and I watched him like a hawk."

"It obviously happened while we were at the fireworks," Luten said.

"You were supposed to be watching me," Prance charged.

"We were watching to see if you were lured away by anyone. There were black dominoes all around, but we couldn't see your pocket. Couldn't you feel him when he slipped his hand in?"

"People were jostling all about. You were there. You know what it was like."

Miss Winchley listened in some agitation, then said, "Did he leave the letter?"

Prance put his hand into the pocket and fished around. "No, I'm afraid not, Miss Winchley. I'm terribly sorry."

A little moan of anxiety issued from her lips. Corinne put an arm around her, murmuring consolation and sympathy, and trying to reassure her that it was not over yet.

"This is a new stunt, not giving back the letter," Coffen scowled. He took the bundle of cut up paper that Prance held and examined it for clues. "What's this?" he said, pulling a folded sheet from the bottom of the pile.

Miss Winchley snatched it and unfolded it. "This is it! It's my letter," she cried, smiling in relief. "It's all right about the money, Sir Reginald. Truly it is. I don't mind, so long as I have this wretched letter back."

"Damme,
we
mind," Coffen said, his jaw set in mutiny.

With the job done, Miss Winchley was eager to go home.

"I would toss that letter in the grate if I were you, and be rid of it once for all," Corinne advised.

Miss Winchley read it again and did as suggested. They all watched as the troublesome sheet flared briefly, then a wisp of gray ash, airy as lace, fluttered up the chimney.

"There goes five thousand up in smoke," Coffen said with a tsk.

Corinne placed a hand on Byron's arm and drew him aside. "Would you mind accompanying Miss Winchley home?" she asked. "As she lost her money, the least she deserves is a little of your company. She was looking forward to it."

He took her hand in his and made a modest bow. "When you put it so charmingly, madam, how could I refuse? But you needn't have flattered me into it, you know. I'm not in the habit of abandoning the lady I accompany, whatever you may have heard of me."

"Oh indeed, I haven't heard any such thing," she said at once, flustered at having inadvertently offended him. She saw from the corner of her eye that Luten was watching them, yet she hesitated to draw her hand from Byron's when she had already hurt his feelings.

"May I come back after?" the dark eyes gazing into hers had a mesmerizing effect. What did he mean, "after"? Was she imagining the invitation in his gaze? Surely he didn't mean after Luten left? She hesitated a moment, looking a question at him. Her lips trembled uncertainly.

"No, it's not what you fear," he said softly. "I'm not that bad. I expect the Brigade will be laying new plans. I would like to help in any way I can."

"Oh." Her gasp of relief betrayed a deal of embarrassment, and a whisper of regret. "Of course you must come back," she said at once, and withdrew her fingers from his.

Luten, keeping an eye on his fiancée from across the room, mistrusted the emotional air of that conversation and strolled over in a casual way to join them. "Byron is going to take Miss Winchley home now, and come back later," she told Luten.

"Good of you, Byron," Luten said. He and Corinne accompanied the parting guests to the door. When they were gone, he said, "So he's coming back, is he?"

"Yes, he'd like to help. I daresay he feels partly responsible as he was Prance's escort."

"I wonder why that made you blush," he said, but with a smile.

"I wasn't blushing. My cheeks are flushed from being near the fire."

"And the further from the fire you and Byron moved, the more flushed they became. But I shall say no more, or you'll think I'm jealous."

She gave him a bold smile. "That would be nice, to think you capable of such a human emotion."

"Even we blocks of ice do suffer a human qualm from time to time. Like hunger. Wasn't Black to prepare something to eat?"

Black had the sandwiches and coffee ready and served them while the group discussed the latest catastrophe.

"He's making dashed fools of us," Coffen said, frowning at a ham sandwich. "I feel like a Johnnie Raw. That's four times he's pulled the wax over our eyes."