Murder's Sad Tale (2 page)

Coffen jotted down Russell’s address, then said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Ballard. We’ll find out who did it. He wasn’t killed for no reason. Probably something out of his past.”

“So kind of you. If there’s anything else I can do to help, I’ll be only too glad. Thank you.” She backed out of the room on an ebbing tide of gratitude.

After she left, Coffen said to Corinne, “We’ll look into the kooey bono business. Who profited by his death, money-wise and otherwise. Only Cooper comes to mind at the moment. He was likely after this Fenwick’s fortune for himself. He’ll want looking into. Well, shall we be off? If we get a wiggle on, we’ll be home in time for lunch.”

It scarcely needed saying that lunch would be taken at Corinne’s house. Pattle’s cook couldn’t cook. His valet was a stranger to shoe polish and the iron, and for that matter his groom had no luck at all with driving.

“My carriage is out front,” he said. “I had planned to visit Bond Street. Might as well let your coachman take the reins. Fitz has learned the route to Bond Street but he’d never find North Audley.”

After she sent for her coachman, she said, “I wonder if Reg would like to come.”

“Not he. He’s busy with his novel. I had to take breakfast at home. I saw Luten darting in earlier and didn’t like to bother you.”

“I’ll get my pelisse,” Corinne said, and they left.

Sir Reginald Prance chanced to glance up from the desk in his study as Corinne and Coffen darted out to the carriage. He frowned to notice the crown of her bonnet was too high and her cape trimmed with an excess of fur. Poor Corinne, she still had the rustic’s idea that excess was elegant, no matter how often he tried to hint her out of it. Her classic beauty and figure were marred by such gew-gaws.

Now where could they be going without inviting him? Not for a pleasure drive on a nasty February morning with wind bucketing the treetops and sending a chill up his spine just to think of going out. She would never take Coffen shopping with her. Perhaps it was a visit to one of their mutual relatives. Ah well, they knew he was deep in the toils of creating his novel. He would pop in on Corinne when they returned and discover what they’d been up to.

His heroine, Lady Lorraine, had just heard an eerie wail beyond her door and was about to creep out into the haunted halls of St. Justin’s Abbey to investigate. St. Justin’s bore an uncanny resemblance to Byron’s Newstead Abbey. Would the hoi polloi realize this? He had a deep, unworthy wish to make this latest opus a thundering success not only with the ton and critics, but with the masses. Naturally he must accomplish this without sinking into the tired old clichés of Mrs. Radcliffe and her hidden panels and secrets lurking behind black curtains and such foolishness. He hoped to get Byron to write an introduction explaining the genesis of the novel.

“I believe I saw Reg’s curtain twitch,” Coffen said as he gave Corinne a push into the carriage. “If he’s not working, he’ll be sore as a gumboil to miss out on this. P’raps we should call him.”

“He takes forever to primp himself when he goes out,” she said with an air of impatience. “Let us get it over with. My modiste is coming this afternoon to fit me for a new gown.”

“True, and besides he won’t care much when there’s no fine lords and ladies involved. He prefers high class murders. Likely as not he’s in there having some evil lord murder Lady what’s her name as we speak.” He gave the drawstring a yank and the carriage drew away.

They found Miss Fenwick’s address with no difficulty. It was a respectable but not quite elegant three story brick apartment building fronting on North Audley. The notice board told them Miss Fenwick lived on the first story. A butler answered the door, which added an unexpected touch of class to the establishment. After running a cold eye over Pattle’s coat, he seemed disinclined to announce the callers to Miss Fenwick.

“Madam is in mourning,” he said. “May I know the nature of--"

Corinne stepped forward, lifted an imperious eyebrow and said, “We have come with a message from Lord Luten. It is rather important. I believe Miss Fenwick will want to see us — Lady deCoventry and Mr. Pattle.”

He bowed and left, returning in a moment in a chastened mood to take their outerwear and show them into a small drawing room whose aspirations to elegance, like Corinne’s toilette, were defeated by clutter. A surfeit of bibelots littered the tabletops. Paintings, mostly inferior landscapes, covered the walls. The few good, older pieces of furniture were overpowered by the new sofa and three chairs, all in blue, as were the drapes and the pattern in the carpet. “A dandy room,” Coffen said in a loud whisper to Corinne.

Miss Fenwick came fluttering to the doorway to greet them. It was difficult at first to see what she looked like for the lace-edged handkerchief held to her eyes. Coffen, however, had no difficulty observing her figure. A nice ripe lady, well-marbled, just as he liked his women and beefsteak. And a shiny blue dress that made no secret of her shape. Hard to tell whether the hair was red or blonde — sort of a mixture, with curls piled high on her head.

“So kind of you to come,” she sniffled. “I was informed by a friend from the whist club that Mrs. Ballard would speak to you. Please do have a seat. So very upsetting about poor dear James. Who would
do
such a horrid thing? And me without a decent black gown to my name.”

They sat down and Miss Fenwick rang for wine. She sniffled and tucked the handkerchief up her sleeve, revealing a plump, pretty face with blue eyes the same shade as the drapes, sofa and chairs. No trace of tears was to be seen in the eyes.

 Coffen’s opinion of their hostess rose higher when he saw the plate of macaroons that accompanied the wine. His breakfast had consisted of a piece of charred bread and a cup of tepid tea with no milk. When the refreshments had been served, she took a deep breath and said, “What can I tell you to help find the villain who murdered my dear James?”

“Begin by telling us what you know about him,” Corinne suggested in a businesslike tone, to forestall another bout with the handkerchief.

Miss Fenwick was made of sterner stuff than that. “He was the finest gentleman I ever knew,” she said categorically. “And anything you hear from others is merely jealousy. He was
not
a fortune hunter. He had money of his own.”

“Who called him that?” Coffen asked, reaching for the macaroon plate. “Cooper, was it?”

“Oh, you know about Mr. Cooper. Well, one doesn’t like to speak ill of friends, but I fear he was not happy when I began to see James, though I
never
felt
that way
about Mr. Cooper I promise you, and never led him to believe it. He quite
insisted
on accompanying me home after our card games. We were just friends, no more.”

Coffen wasted no time on the niceties of conversation. “Do you think he was sore enough to kill Mr. Russell?” he asked.

“As to that, I really wouldn’t care to say,” she replied, in a tone that said the words she was too nice to utter.

Coffen nodded, interested but by no means ready to narrow the field of suspects to one at this early stage. “Where was Mr. Russell from, and how did he come to join the group?”

“He met Miss Crosby, another of our players, at an exhibition at Somerset House. James was interested in art, drama, music — all the finer things.” She adopted a coy smile and said, “I’m afraid he thought me quite uninformed in those areas, growing up as I did in Manchester. ‘My little savage’ he used to call me. Just funning.”

“Where did he grow up himself?” Corinne asked.

“His papa was vicar at Keswick,” she said. “But James left home at an early age.”

“What age?” Coffen asked.

“Oh, around twenty, I believe. An uncle who had made his fortune in India died and left him more than a competence. He didn’t call it a fortune. He moved around for a few years, tried different areas to decide where to buy his estate. Then he settled in London, because of the culture, you know.”

“Didn’t work at all?” Coffen asked.

Miss Fenwick gave him a chiding look. “Mr. Russell was a
gentleman,”
she said.

“Did you meet any of his friends?” Corinne asked.

“Well — at the whist parties. Other than that, no. We used to go for walks — Bond Street to see the shops. James would insist on buying me some trinket. They are all I have left of him now. And we drove out together, into the country when the weather permitted, but mostly through the good parts of town, picking out our future home. James had a fondness for Grosvenor Square. He rather fancied a certain house there. We often used to stop and look at it.”

“Which one?” asked Coffen, who liked to get all the details.

“It was on a corner. Not a large house, for that area. A handsome brick house with an iron fence in front, a black door with a big brass knocker.”

Other than the size, this could be a description of a dozen houses in the area. “Anything unusual about the house?” he persisted.

“I didn’t notice anything,” she said uncertainly. “It was rather difficult to tell from the carriage. But what can that possibly matter? It was the neighborhood we liked, and the fact that that one house wasn’t as large as most. We couldn’t afford a huge mansion, and all the servants that would require. James had spoken to an estate agent and found out that little house was being rented out, and thought the owner might sell it. James was going to sell some securities to buy it in cash, though his stocks weren’t doing too well just then. I wanted to pay for half, and let him wait until his investments had gone back up.”

Coffen’s heart gave a leap of interest at this highly suspicious story. He said, “So you don’t know who his friends were, other than the card parties? You never met any of them at these art and music places?”

She smiled a sad, doting smile. “I’m afraid we were completely wrapped up in each other. He said he didn’t want to share me,” she added with a simper.

“What about his family?” Corinne asked.

“His parents are dead. He had no brothers or sisters, no relatives.”

“Not even a cousin?” Coffen asked. “What I’m getting at is, who will inherit his money?”

“Well, as he had no family, I don’t really know. We were going to make our wills in each other’s favor when we married, but — I really have no idea. We didn’t usually discuss such practical things.”

“Would you happen to know who his man of business was?”

“James handled his own affairs. He was very good at business.”

“What did he do when he wasn’t with you? What were his particular interests?” Corinne asked.

She frowned with the pain of her memories. “Oh, business things,” she said vaguely. “Visited his clubs, perhaps. Gentlemen do that.”

“What clubs would that be?” Coffen asked.

“Oh dear, I’m such a goose I never asked him.”

Neither White’s, Brooke’s, Boodle’s or Wattier’s elicited any sign of recognition. The callers exchanged a frustrated glance.

“Who is your own heir at present?” Coffen asked.

“The Church of England, since I have no close relatives I admire. My one aunt, Mrs. Birrell, refused to come to London with me, though I offered to pay everything.”

“Why did you decide to leave Manchester?” Corinne asked.

“Manchester, though it is a good, plain sort of place, is a cultural oasis,” she announced. “My soul craved the finer things in life. And of course once Papa died and I became my own mistress, there was nothing to keep me there.”

“Well, what did you think?” Corinne asked, as they drove home.

“A looker. For her age, I mean.”

Corinne rolled her eyes in exasperation but didn’t point out the woman was nearly old enough to be his mother, and fat as a flawn besides. She was also enjoying her role of grieving fiancée, even without the proper mourning clothes. Still, that didn’t mean she was completely insincere in her grief. It wouldn’t be easy finding a husband at her age.

“Why did you ask about
her
heir?” Corinne said.

“I thought p’raps her heir might have done in Russell to keep the blunt in the family, but I daresay we can absolve the C of E. Who might be able to tell us something about Russell is Prance,” he continued. “Mean to say — art, music, drama — right up his alley.”

“We’ll ask him if he knew Russell. It’s odd Miss Fenwick knows so little about him. Just that he came from Keswick and inherited money from an uncle. He must have been about her age — what did he do all those years since he left Keswick? Interesting that they were
both
freeing up cash for the house. Money is a strong motive for murder. And they were going to change their wills too.”

“Hadn’t done it yet,” he pointed out. “That certainly wants looking into though. Stands to reason he left his blunt to someone. Thing to do, search his house. It’s on Baker Street. See if we can find out about his business dealings, have a look for his will. I shouldn’t think he would have changed his will to leave it to Miss Fenwick till they were married. If his heir got wind of the romance, he might of feared losing his inheritance — if he had an heir, I mean. A special friend, it would be, since he had no family. I’ll drop around again, p’raps tomorrow, after we’ve thought of what else we should have asked her. There’s time to look over his flat before lunch.”

“Let us get it over with. I don’t want to have to go out this afternoon.”

Coffen pulled the drawstring and hollered the new destination up to the coachman.

They hadn’t far to go. The route was so direct even Fitz, Coffen’s incapable coachman, could have managed it. North Audley Street ran in a straight line, changing its name to Baker as it crossed Oxford Street. They continued north nearly to Marylebone Road. Baker Street was a broad thoroughfare lined with newish houses, mostly built at the turn of the last century. Mrs. Siddons, among other celebrities, lived there.

“Seems Russell was well to grass all right,” Coffen said, as the carriage pulled up in front of a dignified brick building larger than its neighbors.