[Berkeley Brigade 10] - Shadow of Murder (13 page)

“At the harbour,” Coffen said, with some vague memory of someone having mentioned a harbour.

“It’s a possibility, I suppose,” Luten said.

“I doubt Mother would think of anything that ambitious,” Black said.

“They wouldn’t have stored it in the polite part of town either,” Luten continued. “What do you think, Black?’

After examining the map, Black said, “If it was me, I’d head north. Nobody would look twice at a loaded wagon there. They’d have covered the load with blankets. There’s dozens of warehouses, and a little farther north there’s barns as well.”

Luten nodded. “Hundreds of them. Too many to hope to search within a couple of days.”

“And there’s still the possibility they transferred the goods to another wagon,” Black reminded him.

“Oh it’s hopeless! We’ll never find them,” Corinne said, close to tears. “I shall just have to repay the committee from the money deCoventry left me. I’ll be penniless, Luten.”

Black’s withers were wrung to see his beloved in such distress. “You’ll still have the house deCoventry left you, and that little country property,” he said, in an effort to console her.

“I doubt Luten will let you starve, or go in rags,” Prance added.

“This is foolishness,” Luten said angrily. “We may not be able to find the stash, but we should be able to figure out who stole it, or was involved. Perhaps innocently,” he added to keep Prance in curl. “Now, Corbett, Miss Lipman and Chloe, not necessarily in that order. Those are the three we must do some checking up on.”

“And Sean, for good measure,” Black added. “Him and Chloe are close as ticks on a dog. What she found out he’d soon know. He might have put her up to cozening Mrs. Ballard for that matter.”

“We’ve searched Vance’s house. Why not Chloe’s and Sean’s flats?” Prance suggested.

Coffen leapt on it. “Why not indeed? Are you game, Black?”

“Ready when you are, Mr. Pattle. Would you happen to know if they’re home tonight, Sir Reginald?”

“They’re never home at night,” he replied. “To judge by Sean’s condition most mornings he doesn’t spend much time in bed. And Chloe’s not much better. She’s only eighteen, and is beginning to look hagged already. I have their address in my notebook.”

“I already have it,” Coffen said.

“I wonder how you got it,” he said with an arch smile. Not much doubt of that. He had been rifling the blue notebook that time he was left alone a moment in the drawing room. He
knew
he hadn’t torn that page out himself.

“I came across it. Is there anything else, Luten?”

“Not at the moment. If you’re back before midnight, drop in. I’ll be in my office. I have a report to write.”

Prance, eager to prove Vance innocent, decided to go along with Black and Coffen. They didn’t object as it saved calling a hackney. Fitz wasn’t to be trusted with the ribbons at night in a strange place, and Prance had a deep dislike of cabs.

Chloe and Sean had given their address as a rooming house on Stukeley Street. Even Pelkey, Prance’s efficient groom, had difficulty finding the short, undistinguished street in an unfamiliar part of town. When discovered, the house proved to be one of a row of tall, narrow, red brick houses a hundred or so years old. They were not derelict but the signs in the windows offering rooms to let suggested the neighbourhood was entering the steep downward path to dereliction. No gin mills had opened here yet, and no drunkards roamed the streets. Dim lights were visible through some of the dusty windows.

“They might be home,” Black said, peering in the lighted windows at the address they sought.

“They live on the top floor,” Prance said. “Chloe has complained more than once about all the stairs. There are no lights up there.”

“Let us go then,” Black said, taking up the dark lantern and leading the way.

Prance ordered Pelkey to drive the carriage down the street two or three houses and park in the shadows. Sean and Chloe might recognize his carriage if they happened to come home early.

They slunk like thieves through the concealing shadows of night. They met no one, yet the wind whispering between the tall houses held a note of menace that caused them to look over their shoulders. Prance was glad he wasn’t there alone.

The front door was not locked. It opened silently. They entered softly and crept up the steep staircase, lit only by the dim ray from the dark lantern. Their nostrils were accosted not by the expected odour of boiling cabbage and the reek of unwashed humanity, but by a dusty, dead smell, as if the house was untenanted. No crying babies, no arguing spouses, but only the dim lights issuing from under the doors and the occasional muted sound of voices from behind the doors told them the place was occupied.

Only Black recognized these clues to a house tenanted by men engaged in various illegal enterprises. People didn’t so much
live
here as use it as their headquarters for meeting their colleagues and hiding or sharing out their loot. They would have little or nothing to do with each other. Didn’t old Jacques, who ran a ring of dippers, used to work out of here?

By the time they reached the top floor, they felt some sympathy with Chloe for her complaints. The staircase opened into a narrow, uncarpeted hall with a door on either side. By the light of Black’s lantern they saw one door bore a homemade sign bearing Sean’s name, the other Chloe’s.

“At least they ain’t living together without being married,” Coffen said with approval.

“We’ll see about that,” Black, the cynic said, and handed Coffen the lamp while he applied his bit of twisted metal to Chloe’s lock. Once inside, Black took the lantern back, raised it and swung it around. His practised eye told him the rooms came furnished. It would cost more than the lumber was worth to have this lot moved. The mismatched chair and sofa, the bedraggled window hangings, the strip of threadbare carpet on the floor — all struck him as dreadfully familiar from his past life. Prance and Coffen lit lamps and they began to look around.

“Chloe ain’t the kind of girl to leave a mess behind,” was Coffen’s remark. No dirty tea cups or glasses on the sofa table, no magazines or shawls or slippers lying about. Neat as a ball of wax, barring the squalor of the curtains and furniture.

He wandered into the kitchen, and found a similar lack of mess. No dishes in the sink, no food left out to attract mice. In fact, no food, no nothing, not even a pot or pan to be seem. Black, at his shoulder, said, “She don’t spend much time here. Let’s try the bedroom.”

Here they found enough mess to convince them that Chloe did actually live here. The bed was unmade. Clothes, bonnets and shoes were scattered about, along with a copy of the script for
Shadows on the Wall
with her lines marked. A quick search of the dresser drawers revealed a clutter of cheap costume jewelry, ribbons and bows — nothing that suggested guilt. No other personal items were found at all.

“They must share their meals in Sean’s flat, and Chloe just sleeps here,” Prance suggested.

“Very likely that’s it,” Coffen agreed. “If there’s anything to find, it’ll be at his place. Let’s go.”

Black re-locked the door, they went across the narrow hall and Black repeated his work with the homemade passe-partout. The layout of the flat was a mirror image of Chloe’s. Here they found all the signs of occupancy that were missing in hers. Prance, fastidious to a fault, wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t know Sean smoke cheroots,” he said. “He doesn’t do it at rehearsals at least.”

The mess told them that neither Chloe nor Sean was much of a housekeeper. Dirty dishes, remains of food and drink, including several empty wine bottles were scattered all about.

“Looks like they had a party here,” Black said, his sharp eyes making a tour of the room. “Half a dozen glasses, you see, and the remains of three cheroots.”

“Either that or they haven’t cleaned the place up in a week,” Prance said.

“Nay, the wine in the bottom of the glasses ain’t dried up yet, and the cheroots are of three different types.”

“Well, I know they do enjoy a party,” Prance said. “Despite the squalor here, they both turn out in style when they come to Berkeley Square.”

“Now what have we here?” Black said, lifting a knitting basket from the end of the sofa. It opened to reveal a pair of slippers. One was finished, the other still on the needles. It was of an intricate stitch, beautifully done.

“There must’ve been some ladies at that party,” Black said. “This can’t be Chloe’s work. Mrs. Ballard was just teaching her to knit.”

“What’s a party without women?” Prance said with a shrug.

Coffen took up the finished slipper and admired it. Was it a clue? He had attended more than a few actors’ parties, and they weren’t the kind of party where the women sat around, knitting. He took up his lamp and wandered into the bedroom. It was tidier than Chloe’s. Sean’s jackets were on hangers in the clothespress and his used linens in a basket on the floor. The room didn’t boast a desk, but the bedside table had a drawer. Coffen pulled it open and found a pistol resting on a little pile of handkerchiefs. Now that was odd. He picked it up and examined it. It looked brand new, didn’t smell as if it had been fired, but there were bullets in it. A thorough search of the room discovered nothing connecting him to either the robbery or the Maccles family, or whatever gang had stolen the auction donations.

He returned to the front room and reported on the gun. “Nothing suspicious in that,” Black decreed, considering the other occupants of the house. “He might very well need it if he went walking within a street or two of here, as he would have to do to get anywhere. Odd he didn’t take it with him, though.”

“There’s nothing to be found here,” Coffen said.

“Just finding out how Luten’s place is guarded wouldn’t leave any clues. What we
should
be looking into is Miss Lipman’s rooms,” Prance said, before anyone could mention Vance.

“You’re right,” Black said, “but she has rooms with the Sheltons, a genteel family. It wouldn’t be easy getting in there unseen. And she’s been staying at Berkeley Square all along, until today.”

“Did anyone search her room when she left?” Prance asked.

“Lady Luten did,” Black said. “She found nothing. It’s still early. We might as well go back and report to Luten.”

They found him with his hat in his hand, pacing in the hallway.

“We didn’t find a thing, Luten,” Coffen said, as soon as they entered. He stopped and noticed the others were staring at Luten. Then he saw what they were staring at. None of them was so foolish as to think Luten’s grim expression had to do with their no news. “What is it?” Coffen demanded.

“The footman who was following Miss Lipman just reported. She went to visit Corbett and came out screaming. He’s dead. Murdered.”

Prance reeled back and was only prevented from falling by Black’s arms, that reached out and grabbed him. “A spot of brandy for Sir Reginald,” he said.

Luten called, “Evans!” Evans, who had been listening from the half open doorway of the butler’s room came running. “Brandy for Sir Reginald.”

Prance was led to the nearest room with a seat, which happened to be a small parlour where visitors of no particular account were asked to wait to see his lordship. After a few gulps of brandy and a deal of shuddering, Prance recovered sufficiently to gasp in a quavering voice, “I knew that woman was at the bottom of this.
She
killed him.”

“Use your noggin, Prance,” Coffen said. “She wouldn’t have gone screaming into the street if she’d killed him. She’d have snuck off out the back door as quiet as she could.”

“She wouldn’t have gone in a cab and asked it to return in two hours either,” Luten added, “which is what she did, according to the footman who was watching her. No, she didn’t kill him. She wasn’t in the house a minute — just long enough to see the body and run. I was just about to go over there. I waited a moment to see if you came back, and hear what you had to say.”

Prance stiffened his resolve and asked. “Have you informed Bow Street?”

“I didn’t have to. Harry, the footman who followed her there, tells me a little crowd collected when Miss Lipman came screaming out, and someone sent for an officer.”

Prance shook his head. “Poor Vance,” he said. “Just when his long struggle for recognition — fame — was within his grasp, for this to happen. And where are we to find another Maldive to equal him? He was perfect in the role.”

“It don’t take much acting for a villain to play a villain,” Coffen said. “He was a good enough actor to con you anyhow. It’s plain as the pikestaff on your face he was in league with the Maccles, or whatever gang did the thieving. They killed him so he couldn’t squeal on them.”

“That’s it, Mr. Pattle,” Black said. “He must have told them we were questioning him.”

“We’re wasting time,” Coffen said. “Let’s get over there and look for clues.”

Luten cast a sympathetic but withal impatient eye on Prance and said, “Are you up to it, Prance, or would you rather we call Villier to take you home?”

Prance straightened his shoulders and said in his bravest voice, “I’ll be all right. I’d like to go with you. But I hope they’ve removed Vance’s body or at least covered his face. I couldn’t bear to see him, dead. How was it done?”

“We don’t know yet. Harry didn’t actually go inside,” Luten said. “He turned Miss Lipman over to one of the women who was there and came racing back here to report.”

Prance arose, took a deep breath and said, “My carriage is outside. Let us go.”

It was Black, ever mindful of his beloved, who asked, “Does her ladyship know?”

“No, she had retired for the night before Harry arrived,” Luten said. “I didn’t want to trouble her.”

They all went out to the waiting carriage and Black directed Pelkey to the destination. All was silent within the carriage as it sped back to the tall old house on Keeley Street. Three of the passengers were running this new development through their minds, trying to fit it into what they knew of the case. They all concluded that Vance had been working on the inside for the gang and been killed when they learned he was under suspicion, in case he identified them.