[Berkeley Brigade 10] - Shadow of Murder (8 page)

“I’ll be home for dinner,” Black said as he rose to return to Luten’s. “I’ve asked Cook to make your favorite toad in the hole.”

“Kind of you, Black,” Coffen said, and the two were back on their usual friendly footing.

After dinner that evening Black and Coffen changed into the dark clothes they wore for what Black called ‘rough work’. Black made a flying visit across the street to Luten’s library to check out safety precautions before whistling to summon a hackney. At the dot of ten he and Coffen headed to Vance Corbett’s little cottage on Keeley Street, within easy walking distance of the two major theatres.

This inelegant area, close to Wild Street, was familiar to them both. It was not so perilous an area to traverse as Long Acre. No footpads were seen but the cab set a livelier pace once it left the purlieus of polite London.

Corbett’s cottage was at the north end of a street that was trying to prevent sliding into a slum, or recover from having been one. Most of the windows in the modest cottages still held their glass panes. Some of them had had the front door painted in a display of optimism. One of them even sported a shiny new brass door-knocker. Only three of the front windows had signs offering rooms to let. The street held less litter and fewer derelicts than a real slum, but it was far from genteel.

“I wager he don’t bring Miss Lipman home for tea,” was Black’s opinion of the place when the cab reached it.

“There’s no light, let us go in,” Coffen said, reaching for the draw cord.

“Nay, a cab would be a rare thing in a place like this. Folks would take notice of it. We’ll go on a block and walk back. In these duds we’ll pass for locals.”

Black being the acknowledged expert in matters of this sort, Coffen didn’t argue. The street was dark and the moon, obscured by clouds, didn’t offer much illumination. A wind, brisk but not actually cold, gave them a push from behind and sent dust swirling up around their feet. They met only one man, and he didn’t seem dangerous. He even said, “Good evening,” in a polite voice.

At the rundown cottage, Black’s practised hand was soon inserting a twisted piece of metal into the lock to open the door. No unpleasant odour of human squalor greeted them, but the lingering scent of bacon and coffee. They entered the first archway they came to and searched around in the darkness, found lamps and tinderbox and lit two lamps.

They were in the main room of the cottage, furnished in a strange mixture of dilapidated pieces with a few genteel touches. The window hangings were of some faded material that defied identification as to either colour or material. A Persian carpet no bigger than a table placed on the oilskin floor covering stood out like a brooch on a dirty smock.

On the back of the sagging sofa Corbett had tossed a fine fringed shawl of Paisley design. Two piles of reading material littered a rickety sofa table. Leafing through a stack of journals, Black noticed several items relating to theatrical matters were outlined in black pen, some with notes written by hand in the margins. A quick perusal of the notes told him Corbett had made scornful comments of any actor who received a good review. “Overwrought”, “awkward movements”, “nasal voice” and such slurs told his opinion of the performers. He had also marked anything referring to a coming production that was likely to give him a lead on a role.

While Coffen walked around the room looking for purloined objects, Black thumbed through the magazines, noticing Corbett’s other interests. A men’s fashion magazine, a Chippendale furniture catalogue and a sporting magazine — the same sort of reading material to be seen at Luten’s and Prance’s houses. He had seen the same sporting magazine at Mr. Pattle’s. There was also a stack of well-thumbed books on art and antiques, a novel by Walter Scott and a book on landscaping by Repton. Whatever about the other items, Corbett obviously had no need for a book on landscaping. There would scarcely be room for a flowerpot out front. It was four pence to a groat he only rented the place in any case.

Coffen came and peeked over his shoulder. “A bookish fellow,” he said, flickering a disinterested eye over the books.

“He’s been reading up to see how gentle folks live,” Black said. “Ambitious, that’s what he is. Wanting to rise above hisself.”

Black had first-hand knowledge of this behaviour. Having mastered the basics of polite society himself, he was presently studying French to add lustre to the thin patina of a gentleman.

“Let’s get busy and look about,” Coffen said, and taking up their lamps, they prowled around the small room. Corbett did have a few elegant items scattered about the main room. Some pretty vases, an oil painting in a fancy frame, a landscape that neither Black nor Coffen recognized as an imitation Turner. None of the objects came from Luten’s house.

The kitchen held only the most basic necessities. A table and two chairs, a stove and a few shelves holding dishes and a little food. There was no dining room. They went abovestairs and found one empty bedroom, one furnished with some comfort but in the simplest style. Mr. Corbett wasn’t wasting much money on the essentials. The wardrobe, however, held three decent jackets and the dresser revealed a number of shirts and cravats. The essentials of a man’s toilette sat below a small mirror — shaving equipment, comb, brush, a bottle of Steeke’s lavender water. In his business it would be important to keep up a good appearance.

What they did not discover was anything taken from Luten’s house.

“He must keep his papers somewhere, papers that could tell us something about him,” Coffen said. “Everybody has a few important papers — birth certificates, bills and so on. Wasn’t there a little desk in that living room?”

“There was, with a lamp on it.”

“We’ll try the drawers.”

The desk drawers held the papers Coffen had hoped to find. No birth certificate but papers from St. Alban’s Orphanage in Devon giving an approximate date of birth and “parents unknown”, a diploma from the same institution. After a lapse of some years, there were clippings of plays in which he had appeared with good reviews of his performance, a ticket from a pawn shop for a pocket watch. No indication of what he had been up to during those years between leaving the orphanage and becoming an actor.

It was Black who made the more interesting discovery when he returned to the sofa for a rest. Noticing little bits of paper protruding from the pages of an illustrated art book, he opened the book at the marked places and stared. There, big as life, was a picture of that funny looking horse statue they were all making such a fuss about. And there it was in black and white, “belonging to the Marquess of Luten.” He turned to the next marked page, and saw a description of what Black called a jug, and the book called a Grecian urn. It wasn’t a dead ringer for one of Luten’s, but close enough to be its brother. It was in a little cabinet in a niche outside the library. Corbett must have spotted it when he was taking that silver table piece to the library for Miss Lipman. He had a sharp eye! The other marked pages also held objects suggestively similar to items in that cabinet.

Corbett had been taking stock of what small items he thought were worth stealing, and was reading up on them. He had also marked a few of the paintings. Now it would be interesting if — Yes, there it was, that portrait of a dark-browed foreigner by someone called Caravaggio that hung in Luten’s salon. All you could see was the man’s face and hands, and that face wasn’t one to give much pleasure. Black had heard of Rembrandt and Leonardo daVinci. He didn’t care much for either of them, but at least they were famous.

The name Caravaggio meant nothing to him, but if it was good enough to be in a book it must be worth stealing. The picture was a yard tall and wide, did Corbett think he could stick that under his jacket? Nossir, he planned to break into the house a few months after the rehearsals were over, so that he wouldn’t be blamed. Or perhaps he worked for ken smashers, fingering likely pickings for them.

When he had figured this out, and it didn’t take long, he said, “I believe I’ve found something here, Mr. Pattle. Come and have a look.” He flipped through the various marked pages and explained his thinking.

“He took that horse sure as I’m a Christian, and when a stink was raised he brought it back so as not to make them suspicious,” Black said. “He’s planning to make off with more than that horse. We’ll have to tell Luten about this.”

“And Prance,” Coffen added. “He’ll have to turn the fellow off. He won’t like it, but since he says he’ll have to repay Luten if any of his crew make off with valuables, he’ll do it all right.”

“I’d say this was a good night’s work, Mr. Pattle. We’ve earned ourselves a wet.”

“I could do with a bite first.”

“A quick one then.”

Black didn’t care for the looks of the grub at the tavern and limited himself to a glass of ale, just to keep his master company. They had a little trouble finding a hackney when they came out. It was nearly midnight by the time they reached Berkeley Square.”

Evans informed them that the Lutens had retired for the night. “They’ll want to hear this,” Black said.

“His lordship particularly asked not to be disturbed. Would you care to leave a message?”

A certain enmity had arisen between Evans and Black since the time Evans had managed to include himself in one of the Berkeley Brigade’s cases. Black was determined that it not be repeated and Evans was galled that Black, a butler like himself, had ended up as confidant to Lord Luten. He sat at Luten’s table, and called his lordship “Luten”, as if he were a gentleman. A bloody crook was what he was.

“I’ll be in the library overnight to guard the donations,” Black said. “I’ll speak to Luten first thing in the morning. Meanwhile you might bring a bottle of wine to the library for Mr. Pattle and myself, Evans.” To tease Evans, who was on thorns to know what was afoot, he added, “We’re celebrating.”

Eager as he was to know, Evans wouldn’t satisfy him to ask the cause of the celebration. The wine was duly brought. After two glasses and a strong urge to have another, Black said, “We mustn’t overindulge, Mr. Pattle. Why don’t you run along home, and come back early in the morning to tell Luten.”

“I will. I’m feeling peckish again. Wine takes me that way. I’ll ask Cook to bring me a sandwich.”

“Oh no, Mr. Pattle. Remember what I said. You will
tell
Cook to bring you a sandwich. And leave word you’re to be awakened early. Seven-thirty to be here by eight. Luten’s an early riser.”

After Coffen left, Black went to the cabinet to check out the items similar to the ones Corbett had marked in that art book. He lifted the jug pictured in Corbett’s book, reminding himself it was to be called a Grecian urn in public, and examined it. No thing of beauty either, in his view. Then he went to the gold salon and stood before the Caravaggio painting, wondering why anyone would want such an ugly phiz on his wall. Prance, for all his airs and graces, had much prettier pictures. Ladies in lace and ribbons being pushed on swings in a flower garden and such things as fancied in a man’s dreams. He began to feel hungry, and had the pleasure of calling Evans and asking him for a sandwich.

“I’m afraid Cook has retired, Mr. Black.”

“So he has. I’ll just go below and rustle myself up a bite. Luten won’t mind.”

But her ladyship would mind when Black told her, and he would. Black was a great favorite with her ladyship. Evans was forced to swallow the bitter wormwood and say, “No need to trouble yourself, Mr. Black. I’ll do it myself.”

“That’s a good fellow. I’ll be in the gold salon.”

Black enjoyed his light repast, then returned to the library to see all was well there. Nothing was stirring. Pleased with the night’s work, he decided to just check out the back garden before settling in for the night’s watch. He found the footman blowing a cloud, “Just to keep myself alert,” he explained with an air of apology.

“No harm in that, Jack, so long as you’re not drinking.” Black didn’t often smoke, but he was in a mood for company and when the footman offered him a cigar, he accepted. They strolled together through the darkness, while the footman assured him there wasn’t so much as a mouse stirring in the garden.

As they passed the little stand of bushes, two masked men leapt out and attacked them from behind. They didn’t make a sound. They just leapt out and each struck a blow, sending Black and the footman into oblivion. When they came to they were bound, gagged and their eyes covered with a plaster. They could hear hurried, muffled sounds and Black at least knew exactly what was going on.

The donations were being removed, and he couldn’t stir a finger to stop them. He couldn’t even see them. He writhed and wriggled until his wrists were raw and his clothes — luckily his rough clothes — beyond redemption. He remained helpless, racked with impotent fury, while the goods he was supposed to be guarding were spirited away. It was the blackest moment in a career that had known some very black moments indeed.

Black had decreed that the hour just before dawn was the likeliest time for an attack on the valuables. To be on the safe side, he had ordered the second night shift to come at three a.m. The guards chosen for the house were Dennis and Thomas. For the garden one of Coffen’s footmen, a young Irishman called Paddy, was accompanied by an older man, Slack.

During this crucial period, Paddy was admitted at the front door by Evans, as access to the gate to the back door was blocked. He always came ten minutes early to have a bit of a chat with Jack before Slack got there. He was amazed, when he arrived at the library, to find no one guarding the door. After knocking two or three times, he tried the knob and found the door unlocked. He peered into total darkness, which was odd as the guard usually left a light on “so he wouldn’t fall asleep”, he said, though Paddy suspected he was afraid of the dark.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, but by the dim moonlight coming in the outer doors he soon observed the tables were empty of their treasures. Dashed queer! If they’d decided to move them, why hadn’t Evans told him? Now where was he supposed to go? E’er long he felt a breeze, and knew the door to the garden was open.