To Mourn a Murder (24 page)

"Wool, Coffen," Prance said, "though considering the nature of the Bee, perhaps your error is a propos!'

"This is no time to be smart, Reg. We've got to do something. He outwitted you and Byron with Lady Jergen's payment. He lifted Mrs. Webber's pile from under all our noses, and Phoebe Huston's, and now Miss Winchley's. And we've no more notion who he is that when we started."

"I had a word with Lady Jergen at the party," Corinne said. "I asked her who her husband's secretary was seven years ago that summer in Brighton. She said he didn't have one. And she was very definite about it. So who was the fellow who cleared out Goodman's Jewelry shop for him, and got hold of Miss Winchley's letter?"

"He must have done it himself," Coffen said. "It seems Mam'selle pulled the wool over your ears, Prance. Is it possible she's in on it? I don't see how, myself, since she's living in Brighton. Unless she's the Bee's girlfriend."

"Let us not forget she was Jergen's mistress," Prance reminded him. "Who is to say the affair is over? Were any of you keeping an eye on my favourite suspect during the fireworks?"

"I was," Coffen said. "I watched him from the minute he left the table. He was nowhere near you. Did you think to ask Lady Jergen where her husband was the day someone letting on they were him was in Brighton, slicing the page out of that registry at the George, Corrie?"

"Yes, and it wasn't easy leading the conversation around to such diverse matters without arousing her suspicion. I said I heard Lord Jergen had given a stirring speech in the House that day, and she said, 'Oh, it must have been Jersey. Jergen was at Elmgrove.' That's his estate. It's not that far from Brighton. He might have taken a run down there."

Byron returned and Luten quickly reviewed what they had been discussing. "Do you seriously consider Jergen a likely suspect?" he asked, astonishment writ large on his face.

"Prance does," Coffen replied.

"I find that hard to credit."

"We were just trying to eliminate him," Coffen explained, and passed the sandwiches.

"No, thank you. I don't care for meat," Byron said.

"A nibble of bread and cheese then."

"No, I don't care for cheese."

Scanning the table, Coffen said, "Have some gingerbread. It's dandy and fresh."

"I don't eat it, thank you."

Coffen stared, bewildered. "Dash it, you don't look starved. What
do
you eat?"

"I'll have a few soda crackers when I get home."

"You ought to have some real food, Byron. You'll fade away to a shadow."

"About Lord Jergen," Byron said, turning to Luten, "I doubt he's been in Brighton lately. I heard at Melbournes that he's arranging to buy a piece of land from his neighbour, and has been busy at Elmgrove the past week."

"So he says," Prance scoffed. "Who's to prove it? Either he lied about having a secretary clean out Goodman's, or Betsy Grolier lied to me. I don't think she was lying."

"You don't think anyone saw you take off the mask either," Coffen muttered.

"Did anyone happen to see who was standing on my left side at the fireworks?" Prance asked. "The money was in my left pocket. Byron was on my right."

"Should have been on your left, guarding the money," Coffen said with a shake of his head at such incompetence.

"You're absolutely right, Pattle," Byron admitted frankly.

"It was a tall man in a black domino," Luten said.

"Was he alone or with a woman?" Prance asked.

"A woman in a blue domino was with him. There were dozens such couples at the party."

"The woman was neither Lady Jergen nor Lady Callwood," Byron said. "I'd begun suspecting Callwood. You said something the other night that made me wonder, Luten. She would have the nerve for it and might have suffered from light fingers in the past regarding her mistress's diamond brooch. Who is to say what really happened there? Of all our suspects, she strikes me as the only one with the cunning sort of mind to have managed all this, and with a taunting air of insouciance as well. I mean using the Bee signature."

"So where do we go from here?" Corinne asked.

"I don't know about the rest of you," Coffen said, "but I'm going to Brighton and find out what's really going on. If there was a crested rig at the George, everyone in the tap room would have been ogling it. One of them's got to have a good description of who was in it. If Mam'selle Grolier was at the Pantheon tonight, she must have left her shop early. The local folks will know that as well. Your Mam'selle Grolier has a little explaining to do, Prance."

"I don't consider her my property, actually. You're welcome to try your charms on her," Prance said with a dismissing smirk.

"Charm bedamned. I'm going to try money. I'll ask around town and see if she had a beau from London. If she has, I'll get his description and find out if he was seen in Brighton the day the crested carriage was at the George. They notice stuff like that in a small town. There's all kinds of things to do. What will the rest of you do while I'm gone?"

Luten gritted his teeth and said, "Wait to hear who the Bee's next victim is."

"You ought to visit Mrs. Webber, Corrie," Coffen suggested.

She frowned. "Why?"

"Because she came from a place not far from Shepton, where Lady Callwood snitched that brooch and could have heard about it, or read it in the local journal."

"How do you know where she's from?"

"Prance told me where Callwood got herself in trouble. Cousin Elvira Pattle lives near there and always knows all the news. I had a bit of time on my hands when I was tied up with this bum knee. I wrote to Cousin Elvira and gave her the names of all the people involved—didn't tell her about the Bee, of course. I got an answer today. Webber comes from a place just outside of Shepton. What I'm thinking is Mrs. Webber might have read about the case and let it slip to the Bee. It'd be interesting to know who she told, for you may be sure Lady Callwood didn't tell anyone.

"Mrs. Webber pops up both times the case veers away from London or Brighton. P'raps you could quiz her and find out if anyone else involved in the case was in Bath when her letters were stolen at that inn. What I wonder is, what was the Bee doing in Bath?"

"Robbing the hotel," Prance said rather facetiously. "Three or four rooms were broken into and robbed, you recall."

"If he was just smashing and grabbing at random, how'd he know the letters belonged to Mrs. Webber? They would have been addressed to Mrs. Whoever she was at the time they were written, before she married Webber. And if he knew who she was, why did he wait so long to approach her?"

They all listened closely. "Well, why did he wait seven years to approach all the others?" Byron asked. "All the various crimes and misdemeanors took place about seven years ago. Why go after the victims now? Are we looking for someone who has recently gotten himself into dun territory?" He turned to Prance. "That lets out Jergen. He must be high in the stirrups if he's adding acres to Elmgrove. Danby, of course, is rich as Croesus. Or so we believe."

"It could be some fellow we don't know," Coffen said. "Probably this Harrelson lad. Whoever he is, he's something to do with the Jergens. That's where all the trails meet. I'll ask around the actresses in Brighton and see who Mam'selle Grolier is running around with. Does anyone want to come with me?"

Met with a resounding silence, he picked up another sandwich before going to bed. "I'll be gone when you come down in the morning, Corinne. Goodnight all." He shambled off, nibbling on the sandwich and leaving a trail of crumbs behind him.

"Should someone go with him?" Byron asked, looking to Luten. "I'm more or less free."

Luten shook his head. "He'll do fine on his own. Pattle has a remarkable nose for clues, and a way with suspects."

"I suggest you bar your door when he returns," Prance said to Corinne, "or you'll have a tenant for live. There's no reason for him to be staying with you."

"Why is he?" Byron asked. "Doesn't he live right next door?"

"He doesn't like his servants," Corinne said, and blushed at the foolishness of it.

"He's too soft-hearted to turn them off," Luten added.

"He's afraid of them," Prance said. Byron looked confused as the others all laughed.

Coffen had no need for thermoses, hot bricks or eye-masks to enjoy his trip to Brighton. Knowing the inefficacy of his own coachman, he arranged for Corinne's to drive his rig for him. With delivery to his desired destination secured, he drew a fur rug around him, settled his wrenched knee comfortably, closed his eyes and conjured with such clues as he had accumulated thus far.

He knew perfectly well that Jergen had not stolen the money from Prance's pocket because he had seen Jergen with his mask down standing a good three yards away during the fireworks. That needn't mean Jergen wasn't behind it, however. He might have got that nephew of his, Danby, to do the actual pilfering. Danby was the right size for the fellow standing at Prance's left side.

Danby had the reputation of a nabob, but he certainly didn't spend any big money. It could have been Danby driving Jergen's crested carriage at the George and slicing that page out of the register. And the woman at the Pantheon could have been Mam'selle Grolier. He'd find out where she was from as well. He hadn't known about her yet when he wrote to Cousin Elvira. If she was from around Shepton, she could have known about Callwood stealing the brooch.

Mrs. Webber might know as well, but it was hard to believe that sanctimonious lady was involved in stealing. Nearly as hard as it was to believe she'd been doing things she shouldn't with her doctor just a day or two before marrying somebody else. It still left the theft of her letters at Bath to explain. That one intrusion of Bath, so far away, into the case stuck in his craw like a fishbone, demanding attention.

Any way you sliced it, there was no getting away from the fact that all the victims had something to do with the Jergens. By noon he was at East Grinstead, a pleasant little town with a High Street lined with quaint timber houses. He stopped for a bite and a glass of wine. Then another glass to wash down the apple tart, and one for the road. A shame to leave a partly full bottle behind so he finished it.

Back in the carriage, he stared out at the passing scenery of farm houses tucked behind hedgerows. All the trees looked alike to him, a leafless tangle of branches against the gray sky. The fields were all the same colour that didn't know whether it was yellow or brown, with a few black fir trees standing guard. Really hardly worth looking at. His eyelids fluttered down, and when he awoke, the carriage was at the door of Luten's house and his left foot was sound asleep from the angle he had to hold it at to ease the pain in his knee.

He hobbled in to say his how-do-you-do to the Partridges and let them know he would be staying the night. Luten hadn't had time to notify them but Coffen had long been a favourite of this countrified couple and was greeted almost like a son. He took his tea in the kitchen with Mrs. Partridge and used the time to quiz her about Mam'selle Grolier.

After hearing about the high price of her bonnets and the tiger rug and the tea served to special customers he said, "You wouldn't happen to know if she closed up her shop early yesterday?"

"Now fancy you asking that! I was down to the fish market at ten, and it was open then, but Mrs. Frumm dropped in for a chat last evening and she said Mam'selle was closed by half after ten and never reopened. Funny you should ask?" Her tone made it a bid for explanation.

"Didn't Prance tell you we're working on a case?"

"Not in so many words, but I did wonder what brought him here off season. So Mam'selle's involved in something fishy, is she?" Mrs. Partridge said with infinite satisfaction. A woman pays the price for being too stylish in a small town.

"She just might. I'll let you know. Does she have any special fellow that calls on her?"

"Quite a few London gents."

"No, but I mean one special one, a beau."

"Not that I've heard of. They never stay longer than an hour or so. I'd like to know why she closes the shop curtains when they're in there," the innocent soul said. She looked all around the kitchen for spies and added, "I have a notion she's selling contraband goods. Brandy, or maybe silk."

"That could be it," Coffen nodded, as he was uncomfortable discussing more intimate matters with women. "I'll just toddle on down and have a word with her."

"I'll make up some gingerbread for dinner."

"That'd be dandy, Mrs. Partridge. You make the best gingerbread in the country. With raisins, mind!"

"Fancy you remembering," she smiled.

"How could I forget?" he said simply, further cementing her devotion.

He drove west towards the King's Road, where tourist hotels were proliferating in the little seaside town the Prince of Wales had brought into fashion. He had built himself a grandiose pavilion by the sea that changed and grew year by year until it reached monstrous proportions. Coffen loved it. Where the Prince led, others followed. Shops were everywhere, to cater to the visitors' needs. He had Mam'selle's address from Prance and alit at Bedford Square. A wretched raw wind blew in from the Channel, lifting his coattails and creeping up his back. He bent his head and hobbled towards the shop with the black sign in lettered gilt.

He was disappointed to see her curtains drawn. Was she with a gent? He'd give a guinea to know who he was. It was already coming on dark but it got dark so early this time of year that the other shops weren't closing yet. He strolled up and down the block, looking in shop windows but always keeping an eye on her door. After half an hour the curtains were still drawn and he was half frozen. His patience was at an end. He stepped forward and knocked at the door. Once, twice, three times. She'd closed early yesterday. P'raps she wasn't back yet from wherever she'd gone. In Coffen’s mind, her destination was London, to attend the Pantheon. And with luck, she was still there.

Within a minute he had decided to get into the shop and have a look about for clues. This meant slipping down the alley and finding the back door, or possibly a window low enough that he could manage it with his game leg. The door was on the latch, indicating she was in her shop. He went in and called tentatively, "Mam'selle, are you here?" No answering voice broke the ominous stillness.