[Berkeley Brigade 10] - Shadow of Murder (22 page)

“Don’t count on it,” Townsend said. “I’ve been pursuing investigations into the matter and hear Dan’s daughter is just such another as himself. She’s worked with her da since she was knee-high to a cricket. When Dan had fingered a carriage where a lady was wearing her fancy jewels to a party, he used to have Missy throw herself in front of the carriage and lay on the ground bawling and screeching as if she was dying. The lady would get out of the carriage, Dan would snatch the ice and the two of them would take off, clean as a whistle.”

“I’ve heard of children being used in that way. Still, with Dan gone, I shouldn’t think a young girl would tackle the job alone.”

“Not using that old ruse of falling in front of the carriage, but that was some years ago. Missy is no longer a child. I know that Dan was accompanied by what the victim called a young lad on a few cases. My own feeling is that the lad was Missy, rigged out in trousers, for Dan never worked with anyone but her, so far as I could find out.”

“He seems to have worked with someone — the Maccles we believe, on the theft of the auction goods.”

“He may have given them advice, and we know he was the one went to kill Corbett, likely as a favour to Mother. He’d not have used the Maccles in one of his own jobs. It’d be like yoking up oxen with a race horse.”

“I still think it unlikely that a girl will tackle the job alone, but she might have her fellow help her. I’ll suggest to Lady Clare that she make use of your services for the delivery.”

“You do that, Luten. Better safe than sorry.”

“What does Dan’s daughter look like?”

“I wouldn’t know her if she walked through the door and kicked me, but the word I have from my sources is that she’s a bold, brass-faced chit, hair black as soot, small and pretty, which tells me she took after her ma, for Dan had a phiz would frighten a dragon. Well, you’ve seen him. As a corpse I mean. He wasn’t any prettier when he was alive.”

Luten nodded. “You haven’t had any word on Corbett?”

“I’ve not. It’s uphill work catching actors. They can change their looks so their own mother wouldn’t know them. He might be walking the streets dressed up like an old lady, or limping along with a cane and green glasses, making out he’s a blind beggar. He’s not gone next or nigh his own little cottage. That I do know. I’ve had a man on it and no one’s gone in.”

“One man can’t watch two doors at once,” Luten said, lifting an eyebrow in question.

Townsend looked at him as if he were a moonling. “He’s stationed
inside,
Luten, with his ears cocked for any sound. If he was sitting on the doorstep, it just
might
put Corbett off if he did come.”

“I always learn something useful from you, Townsend.” Luten said, with a chuckle, and rose to leave.

“Glad to hear it. You can have that tip for free.”

When Coffen left Prance he went across the street to get Miss Lipman’s address from Corinne. He was surprised to see Robert on the door, until he remembered Evans had been up all night guarding the restored goods.

“Any news?” Corinne asked him, when he was shown into the rose salon. This was the usual question when they were working on a case. He showed her the bauble from the boot and learned that she’d never seen it. He told her where he’d found it, and that Villier thought perhaps it was Corbett’s.

“That would mean he helped take the goods to the attic!”

“Exactly, which is why I want a word with Miss Lipman, in case she’s heard from him. So where does she live?”

“She’s not at home. She’ll be at Mrs. Middleton’s, working on the accounts.”

“Where would I find Middleton’s place?”

She shook her head. “Where it’s always been, on Brook Street, Coffen. You’ve been there dozens of times.”

“Oh, right, that house with the green ballroom, where they water the wine. What are you doing this morning, Coz?”

“Waiting, worrying.”

“Why don’t you come along with me? Black’s got my carriage. We could take yours.”

She was happy enough for the diversion and sent for her carriage. At Brook Street the butler showed them into a small waiting room where Miss Lipman sat working over her figures. She seemed happy for the reprieve.

“Lady Luten, and Mr. Pattle,” she said, smiling. “Nice of you to call. Do have a seat.” There was only one other chair in the room. Corinne took it. Coffen refused the offer of bringing in another chair and remained standing.

“We won’t be staying long,” he said.

“How are you making out, Miss Lipman?” Corinne asked.

“The tickets are selling well. Mrs. Middleton keeps me busy with other little jobs as well. Have you heard any word of Vance?”

“Not a whisper,” Coffen said. “We were hoping you could tell us something.”

“No, I haven’t heard from him,” she said with a sad shake of her head.

He pulled the little gilt pendant from the boot out and laid it on the desk. “I was wondering if you’d ever seen this before,” he said.

She picked it up and looked at it, shook it till the chains danced and looked a question at him. “I don’t believe so, but then one of these little boot ornaments looks much like another.”

“What I’m getting at is, did Corbett wear them?”

“No, he didn’t,” she said quite firmly. “He thought they were gaudy. Where did you get it?”

“It turned up,” he said vaguely. “Did you happen to notice if Sean Everett wore this sort of thing?”

“I never noticed,” she said, “but if, as I suspect, you found it some place that suggests it belongs to the thief, you’re wasting your time harping on Vance.
He
felt that Sean and Chloe were up to no good, if you want the truth. She was always buttering up Mrs. Ballard, asking her questions about the house and laughing at her behind her back. Why was she doing that? I thought she just wanted to soften her up so she’d have an excuse to call at Berkeley Square, and perhaps work her way into your good graces, Lady Luten. Now I wonder if that is what she was up to, or something worse.”

“You think she might be the one who found about how the auction goods were stored?” Corinne said.

“Why not?”

“But it was Corbett
^’
s house where the icon was found,” Coffen reminded her. “And Corbett who killed Dan Dumbrille.”

“We don’t know that,” she shot back. “We only know his body was found in Vance’s cottage.”

“And Corbett hightailed it out of there pretty quick.”

“He might have been frightened,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about it a great deal, and if Vance saw whoever shot that Dan person, then he’d be afraid the killer would be after him.”

Coffen and Corinne both listened to this new interpretation of events with interest. “That’s true,” Corinne said. “I never thought of that.”

“If that’s the way of it, why wouldn’t he have gone to the police, or been in touch with you or someone who could help him?” Coffen said.

“He’s probably in hiding, afraid to show his face in public. You all just assume he’s guilty because he was in the library once —
just once!
And he never asked me a single thing about how the goods were safeguarded when we were alone together. I don’t think he had any interest in them at all, other than just admiring them as works of art.”

She expatiated a little longer on Vance’s innocence, and after a decent interval they left.

“She obviously really thinks he’s innocent,” Corinne said. “But there was the matter of the T’ang horse. I suppose any of them could have moved it. It probably has nothing to do with the robbery.”

Coffen took out his clue and stared at it. “If she’s telling the truth, this don’t belong to Vance, and that’s what I went to find out.” He studied it a little longer, then said, “Unless she was lying to protect him. She caught on pretty quick that we felt it pointed the finger at him, and came up with that business about Chloe trying to worm her way into Mrs. Ballard’s good books.”

“Chloe
was
making up to Mrs. Ballard though. Wouldn’t Miss Lipman have claimed to have seen the boot bauble on Sean Everett if she was trying to make him and Chloe look guilty?”

“Not if she knows Everett
didn
’
t
wear such things and Prance had noticed. It’s the sort of thing he
would
notice. Funny she didn’t ask if you’d recovered the goods. Do you figure she already knew? That’d be suspicious.”

“Yes, it is odd,” Corinne said. “You’d think she’d be worried, or at least curious. I was wondering whether to tell her, but as she didn’t ask, I didn’t bother. I don’t know whether this visit has helped or only muddied the waters further. I wonder if Black is back yet. Black is a marvel for finding out things.”

“We’ll go home and see. I’m feeling peckish. Didn’t have any breakfast this morning.”

Corinne just smiled. It seemed like old times, out investigating with Coffen, and him hinting for food. “Cook made gingerbread this morning. Pity she doesn’t add raisins, as you like. I shall tell her to next time.”

“I like it either way, but it’s even better with raisins, like your Mrs. Partridge in Brighton makes. We’d ought to all run down to Brighton for a little rest after we solve this case. Just the right time of year for it.”

“Luten mentioned the Lake District, but that’s a long drive, and he won’t be able to get away for very long. We’d spend half the holiday in the carriage. Brighton would be nice this time of year. I’ll suggest it.”

Prance found his interest in writing the script for
Shadows
was fading, now that Vance was not to play the role. Without his rehearsals to occupy his morning, he was amusing himself by continuing a series of paintings of his servants dressed as characters from Shakespeare’s plays. Villier was usually his model for this particular series of paintings, not just because he was easily available and he enjoyed his company, but because he had an amazingly mobile face. With the proper makeup, he could impersonate anyone from King Lear to Romeo, or in a wig, even Juliet.

On this morning he had Villier dressed as Hamlet, wearing a black cape tucked around him to give an indefinite shape as he wasn’t quite sure what a Dane actually wore at that period in history. Lacking a studio, he had the carpet of his drawing room covered in oilskin papers and had set up his easel by the window there. He claimed it was because he needed the light, but both he and Villier knew that what he wanted was a view of the neighbours’ comings and goings.

“I’m roasted to a turn in this woolen cape with the sun shining in on me, Sir Reginald,” Villier complained.

“Take it off, then. I’m only doing the head this morning.”

“Now you tell me!” He tossed the cape aside with a sound that was half scorn, half relief. “There’s Lady Luten’s carriage just arriving,” he said, peering out the window when he heard the rumble of carriage wheels. “Pattle is with her.”

Prance set his brush down. “That’s enough painting for today. The head is done — the hardest part. You see to cleaning up this mess, Villier. We’ll resume tomorrow.”

Villier rushed to the easel, tilted his head this way and that as he examined the likeness of himself scowling at him from the canvas. “Must I look so ill-humoured and worried? Mama will think I’m costive, and send me that horrid cod liver oil medicine.”

“You forget, you are Hamlet, pondering matters of grave moral import. The frown gives the air of gravitas I was after. You would hardly be smiling at the contemplation of murdering your mama’s husband.”

“But you said the pose, with my head resting on my cupped hand, would give that contemplative effect.”

“It didn’t work out. You looked as if your head was loose and you were holding it on by main force.”

“Is my nose that
huge?
Could you not paint a few millimeters off it? Between the scowl and the nose, Mama will never recognize me.”

Prance studied the picture, then Villier’s nose, then the picture again. “You’re right, Villier. The nose is too large. Where is that brush I was using for the skin tones? Ah, here it is. Just a little stroke — there! That’s better.”

“C’
est moi! C
’
est absolument moi!
”
Villier cried. “Wherever did you learn to paint like that, Sir Reginald?”

“I don’t believe Rembrandt need worry, nor even Romney,” Prance said with a little laugh. “Still, it is not bad. I’m glad you’re happy with it. I believe I’ll just nip over to Luten’s and see if Coffen has learned anything. I’ll be there if any interesting caller should come looking for me.”

Villier could not pull his eyes away from the very flattering likeness of himself on the canvas. “Mmmm,” he said with a distracted air, to acknowledge that his master had spoken. As it was the master’s genius that was responsible for this trance, Prance forgave him.

Really, the Shakespearean series was turning out amazingly well. After he had finished the script for
Shadows,
he should rent a little
atelier.
It would be amusing to have his friends drop in and watch him at work. He would give his eyes to do that raving beauty, Lady Cowper. He should re-do Corinne as well. And by the way, what had happened to that little bust of her he had painted a few years ago? It was one of his successes, but it wasn’t on view in her new home.

Did he really have time to become serious about his painting? There was his novel writing, that was proving such a success. It might be interesting to do a series of illustrations for his next book. They would have to be engravings — a whole new area he had never studied. So much to do! So little time!

* * *

“Well, any news?” he asked, when he was shown into Corinne’s rose salon.

Coffen’s agenda was never so full as his friend’s, but he wasn’t one to waste time or words. “The doo-dad ain’t from Corbett’s boot,” he said. “Miss Lipman said he don’t wear them. She can’t remember whether Sean does or not.”

“Nor do I remember,” Prance said, “but he’s the very sort of gent who
would
wear such shoddy things. They would just match those jackets with the padded shoulders, and the scarlet striped waistcoat.”