To Mourn a Murder (9 page)

Coffen worried his upper left molar with his tongue, then said, "Why are the Whigs trying to lure him into politics if they think he's a traitor? A bit dangerous, ain't it, sharing government secrets with him?"

Luten didn't believe for a moment that Byron was a traitor. He merely wanted to vent his jealousy in a socially acceptable manner. Leave it to Coffen to point out the inconsistency in his argument. For a man who could scarcely speak the king's English, he was quick to get to the core of things.

"For your information, Pattle, we Whigs do not form the government. We are in the opposition. In any case, I'm not saying he's a traitor. The French, knowing his views, may be using him. The safest place for him is in the party, where we can keep an eye on him. He's young yet, after all. Only four and twenty."

He was saved from further sophistry by the arrival of the coffee. Corinne poured and passed, adding sugar to Luten's, to please him. Coffen ladled in cream and six teaspoons of sugar and frowned into his cup as he stirred it up. "So how do you figure the Bee plans to put all this to advantage, other than getting hold of the money?" he asked Luten.

"Demands of this sort seldom stop at one bleeding," Luten said. "His next demand might be for Lady Jergen to steal government documents from her husband's red pouch, for example. Or to make some use of Webber's place at Dover. Store guns, armaments. Who knows?"

"You're forgetting, Luten, Lady Jergen got her letters back," Coffen pointed out, "so he has no hold over her now."

"Who is to say she got the originals and not clever copies done on similar paper? As to Lady Callwood, all she got was a promise. There might be any number of articles from the Shepton journals outlining her crime. Don't assume we're dealing with a simpleton."

"By the living jingo," Coffen said, "it looks like we ought to call in the Admiralty. This is bigger than both of us. Bigger than all of us."

Luten leveled a cool stare on Prance and said, "It might have helped had I been informed of this dangerous plot from the beginning, but let us have no more secrets from now on. First we must capture the drone who is to collect Mrs. Webber's money tomorrow night. He will be a mere drone, of course. The king bee will be safe in the hive."

"Queen bee," Coffen said. "It's queens they have. Winkler told me all about it."

Luten lifted a delicate eyebrow. "Quite right, but it would hardly be a lady behind an undertaking of this magnitude."

Corinne cleared her throat and glared.

"That ain't what I meant," Coffen said. "Just saying, bees have queens, not kings. Queen bee. Everybody's heard of that. And the drones don't work either. What we have is a worker bee."

"Thank you for clearing that up, Pattle," Luten said blandly.

"Will you be going with the others tomorrow night, Luten?" Corinne asked. They all listened for his answer.

"I expect three gentlemen can handle one bee," he replied with an air of indifference.

Coffen looked around for food and, finding none, said, "But if the Frenchies have got Byron on their side, then it'll be two against two. Two of us against three of them, if you count the driver."

"Actually, I plan to be there," Luten said, "hiding nearby with my pistol cocked, but not to take part in the arrest if all goes well with you."

Prance wiggled his shoulders in annoyance. "I think you're utterly mad to suspect Byron. If you'd seen his face when Mrs. Webber was telling us her story!"

"She made a dandy rant of it," Coffen added. "If the mother-in-law kicks her out, she could always take to the boards at Covent Garden. What none of you mentioned is that Brighton keeps cropping up. Lady Jergen met her Mr. Brunei in Brighton."

"A French name, Brunei," Luten murmured.

"I ain't finished," Coffen said. "Mrs. Webber had her fling with Andrew Hale in Brighton as well. I think we're looking for a Brighton bee."

Luten nodded. "It's well known that Brighton is riddled with spies. With Prinney's pavilion there, the town is full of government officials, drunk as Danes half the time. The plot might very well have been hatched there, where so many of the French émigré’s landed in England."

"About the times, though," Coffen said. "The ladies had their little fling seven or eight years ago, before Boney was a threat."

"What's that to do with anything?" Luten asked. "He's making use of the knowledge now."

Coffen considered this. "If we don't get the matter settled tomorrow night, I'll take a run down there and look for clues. The Bee told Mrs. Webber he had proof she was there. Stands to reason the clue is at the George Inn where she and the doctor did their feather bed jig. I'll check the register and see who else was there the night of July 5, 1805. That's the date mentioned in the letter she got. They must have been seen by the blackmailer."

"That's an excellent idea, if we fail tomorrow night," Luten said, but he said it in an offhand way that hinted he didn't think it would be necessary.

After they had discussed the case a little longer, Corinne said, "Well, is there anything else?"

Coffen turned to Prance. "That means she wants to get rid of us and be alone with Luten."

Luten rose and pulled Coffen from the chair. "Not at all, but as you insist on leaving now, I shall see you to the door."

When Luten reached for Prance, Prance said, "I shall go peacefully, Luten. No need to do violence to my new jacket. I can take a hint."

"Good! Then I'll just drop you the hint that a violet kerchief with yellow spots looks demmed foolish on a man."

"Byron particularly admired it."

Luten allowed a vague smile to flicker across his lips. "I rest my case," he murmured.

After they left, Luten said to Corinne, "I hope you're not seeing too much of Byron, in case he's involved in all this wretched business."

She just looked at him and shook her head. "If you don't like my seeing Byron, just say so, Luten. There's no need to go inventing these unlikely stories about his being in league with the French."

"Only innocently involved! I don't say he's a traitor."

"So if he's not involved with them, you would have no objection to my seeing him?" She watched him, biting her lower lip to keep from laughing at his dilemma.

"What do you have in mind?" he asked, in the drawling voice he used when he wanted to conceal his anger. "Seeing him on what basis? As you're engaged to me, naturally I would object to pre-arranged private meetings. I hope I'm not narrow minded, but I am not broadminded enough to accept that."

"You know I would never do anything like that," she said. He mistrusted the glint in her eyes, but was too proud to say more.

As the gentlemen went outside, Prance said, "What do you think about this French spy business, Coffen?"

"Rubbish. Luten has French spies on the brain. It's what comes from sitting in the House all day, listening to them talk gibberish about the war. Either that, or he's jealous of Byron and is looking for an excuse to drop him."

"Exactly what I thought!"

"I'm not mad for Byron myself, but I don't mind him. You can understand him being a bit full of himself, the way the ladies fawn on him. He's nearly as good as he thinks he is."

"Then you agree with me that there's nothing in this French business?"

"I don't see anything French in it at all, other than Brunei having a French name, and since he's married to some rich lady in Ireland, I figure we can leave him out of it. What you'll have to do if we don't get it settled tomorrow night is find out who knew exactly how much money the three different ladies could get hold of in a hurry. The sum asked in each case was just what they could pay without letting their husbands know. Or in Webber's case, her mother-in-law. You know my views on coincidence. Got to be somebody close to the three of them, eh?"

"I agree. Er, why do you say
I
will have to find out?"

"Because I'll be looking for other clues."

"Looking for clues in a haystack."

"No, in Brighton. Told you. What you could do for starters is find out if they all have the same man of business. So, is it time for fork work?"

"No, for glass work. We'll go to my place and have a glass of wine. I don't like to leave Petruchio alone too long. He'll tear my cushions to shreds." They began walking along to Prance's house.

"You shouldn't let him have the run of the place. Why don't you keep him in the kitchen?"

"Too cruel. He's already so attached to me." And besides, who would see him in the kitchen?

As if reading his mind, Coffen said, "You could keep him in the kitchen when you're not home. Nobody'd see him then anyhow."

“Petruchio is not a mere object to decorate my drawing room! He is a living, sentient creature."

"They get sentient as they mature, especially if you don't get them fixed. The scent of cats puts some folks off. Myself, I don't mind it, though I prefer the smell of stables."

"Petruchio does not smell!" Prance said, and they went squabbling into the house.

Nothing unusual occurred that evening. The Berkeley Brigade attended Mrs. Lowden's ball, where Prance sat in a corner practising Byron's underlook and refusing to dance with anyone. This was done to give him an insight into the working of Byron's mind. He was worried at Luten's charge that Byron was an admirer of Napoleon. Was it possible that not being able to dance had turned the poet's mind to some vague thoughts of revenge against England? It certainly put Prance in a foul mood when no one paid any attention to him except a footman who inquired if he would like a headache powder.

He was half convinced Luten was right the next day when he found Byron reading a French novel,
La Nouvelle H
èloise,
and praising it to the skies. Prance was no lover of Rousseau. The farther from nature Prance could get, the better he liked it. He thought
La Nouvelle H
èloise
a foolish, freakish book, just what one would expect from a man who chose to live twenty-five years with a kitchen maid.

Prance could tolerate any amount of bad behaviour in his artistic icons. He thought no less of Voltaire for having been in the Bastille and exiled to England. Richard Sheridan's fondness for drink and not paying his debts only added to his charm. Even boring old Milton, whom one always felt one should like, had made himself notorious for a spell by that pamphlet on divorce. But living a quarter of a century with a kitchen maid was not an artistic sort of aberration; it was just poor taste

When Byron joined him and suggested they go down to 13 Bond Street to go a few rounds with Gentleman Jackson, Prance demurred.

"Actually fencing is my sport," he said, as he was ashamed to admit he hated physical violence of any kind.

"Excellent. Henry Angelo is in the same building. But of course you knew that."

Indeed he did know it, and this famous fencing master would presumably know his own pupils, and know that Sir Reginald Prance had never darkened his door. "Oh he's not my teacher. I have an Austrian fellow, an ex-colonel. Best not to change masters in mid-stream." Oh lord, had he really said that? He was seeing too much of Coffen.

"Suit yourself. I have to keep up the strength in my arms. My legs are no good to me, but I have the kick of a horse in my arms." He curled his fingers into a fist and boxed the air. "Mr. Bee will feel this tonight.”

* * * *

Lady deCoventry did not intend to be left out of the night's activities. When neither Luten, Prance nor Coffen would allow her to join them she decided to ask her butler to accompany her. Black occasionally acted as her escort in such ventures. They were the highlights of his life, providing fodder for daydreams until the next outing.

When he accompanied his mistress he became, in his own mind, Lord Blackwell, wealthy scion of an ancient noble family. It was in the guise of Lord Blackwell that he dared to say, "I'll go with you, of course I will, but I'll not let you get close enough to get yourself shot at. What we'll do, we'll park the rig a few blocks away, say at the British Museum, and foot it towards the destination. I know the place like the back of my hand. The thieving scoundrel chose his spot well. There are no handy trees to hide behind."

"Perhaps we could hide at the side of a nearby house. Dressed all in black, no one will see us at night."

"Exactly my thought, milady. As an added precaution, I suggest a hired hackney. It wouldn't do for a certain marquess to see your carriage there," he said roguishly.

"A good idea, though the gentlemen will be much too busy fighting to pay any attention to us. I just want to see it. It's ridiculous the way they never want a lady to have any excitement."

At eleven-fifteen Black came into the drawing room, where his mistress sat waiting, dressed all in funereal black, but the twinkle in her eye had no mourning aspect.

"His lordship has just left, milady," Black announced. "The others went a while before him."

"You'd best go and find us a hackney, Black."

He gave her a smile of great condescension. "I have one waiting round the corner, madam." He laid his finger aside his nose and said, "I'll dart out and be back in a tick." He left, a blissful smile on his usually dour countenance.

They were soon rattling along in the hired hack that smelled of dust and sweat and wine. In deference to his mistress, Black had placed a blanket over its seat. The darkness lent a special touch of enchantment to the trip for Black. They couldn't see each other and as neither spoke, he could enjoy an imaginary conversation of his own invention. They passed a few elegant chaises delivering their occupants to and from their evening entertainments. Too soon, the hulking shadow of the British Museum loomed ahead of them. The driver drew into a lane and stopped. Black leapt out, let down the step for the countess and offered her his hand for the descent. It was a moment to be cherished, the placing of those dainty little fingers on his arm.

"Wait here for us," Lord Blackwell commanded the driver and led his mistress down the street with his fingers just touching her elbow.

They stopped half a block short of the designated corner in the shadow of a house and waited. It seemed a very long time to Corinne. Ragged clouds dimmed the moon to a pale, opalescent glow. A brisk wind whistled around the corner, creeping under her shawl and pulling at her skirt. She scanned the area but her cohorts were so well hidden that she could see no trace of them, though there was no fog to hamper vision. Twice the silence was broken by the sound of an approaching carriage, causing her to come to attention. The first carriage proved to be Lord Castlereagh's, the second was one she recognized as belonging to the Mansfields, a perfectly respectable couple. Neither one slowed down or stopped.