To Mourn a Murder (10 page)

The magical hour of midnight came and went while she waited, eyes and ears strained for another carriage, and still nothing happened. The hackney did not arrive. Mrs. Webber did not come. What had gone wrong? It was ten minutes past twelve when a footman dressed in what looked, in the shadows, like grey livery came pelting down the street. He stood a moment, held a lantern aloft, looked all around, then called softly, "Lord Byron. Are you here?"

After another moment, Lord Byron stepped forth from the shadows. The footman spoke to him in a voice pitched too low for Corinne to hear. But when Byron waved his arm and Prance and Coffen came forward, she knew events had not proceeded as expected. The three gentlemen followed the footman off as he led them toward Montague Street.

"I wonder if Mrs. Webber is ill," Corinne whispered.

"Nay, the Bee would have been here if that's what happened," Lord Blackwell informed her. "There's been some hitch in the plan. I'd best take you home, madam. His lordship will come around to tell us all about it. We don't want him to get there before us."

"Let's just wait a little longer."

After five minutes she was cold and bored enough to leave. They returned to the waiting hackney and thence to Berkeley Square.

"I'll send you in a nice hot cup of cocoa," Black said as he led his mistress to the sofa before the grate. Lord Blackwell's night was over. It was in his less desirable role as butler that he scolded, "I told Jackie to keep this fire up," and threw a couple of logs on it before leaving.

Both the cocoa and the blazing fire were welcome after her long wait in the cold. She didn't bother to change her gown. She picked up a magazine and was innocently thumbing through it when a scowling Luten came limping in.

Corinne set aside her magazine and asked eagerly, "What happened?"

"We were stung by the Bee," Luten replied curtly, and headed to the chair nearest the fire. The heat would ease the pain in his ankle. He hooked his cane around a footstool and drew it forward.

"But what happened, Luten? If he didn't come, then at least Mrs. Webber still has her money. He'll write to her again."

"Oh no, he got the money. He was waiting half a block from her house. Knocked her on the head as she hurried down the street, grabbed the money and ran off. After she recovered, she sent a footman to let  Byron and the others know."

Corinne gasped. "Was she badly hurt? Is she all right?"

"She had recovered enough to have a hurried, whispered word with us at the front door, so the mother-in-law wouldn't know."

"What a wretched way to live, the poor lady."

"She was even afraid to call the doctor, though she had a wicked bump on the back of her head."

"And after all that, he still has her letters."

"No, that's the strangest part. The letters were in her hand when she came to, including the crucial one in which her lover was, apparently, indiscreet enough to put in writing things that cast doubt on her son's paternity. She didn't actually show us the letters. In fact, she planned to read them one last time and throw them into the fire. You could see it cost her to do it. She was very distraught."

"At least she got them back. That's something."

"Yes, I've been thinking about that. I don't like the implication."

"What do you mean?" she asked in confusion. "Surely that suggests he doesn't intend to try to get more money from her."

"She doesn't have any more, and I wager he knows it. What it suggests is that if his victims pay up, he won't harass them again. It's a sort of insurance to future victims. Pay up, and it's all over. Why would he be at pains to give that impression if he didn't plan to strike again?"

"Then we haven't heard the last of him."

"I hope not."

"Luten!"

"How the deuce are we to catch him if he stops now? Mrs. Webber couldn't give much of a description of him. A small man, she thought. I daresay it could even have been a woman in trousers. She didn't hear him–or her–speak. Lady Callwood, on the other hand, did. She says it was a man right enough, and although she couldn't judge his height in the carriage, she said he was a broad-shouldered man. It sounds as if there's more than one person involved."

"Lady Jergen mentioned that the man in the carriage was smallish. It could have been a boy, or a woman," Corinne suggested. "Lady Callwood didn't mention a French accent?"

"No. He'd be careful to hide it. The man said only a few words to her."

After a moment, she asked, "Where are Coffen and the others?"

"They should be along in a moment." He gave a frustrated look and said, "Prance wanted to go home first to see that his cat is all right."

"Why, is there something the matter with Petruchio?"

His expression softened in reluctant amusement. "He was feeling poorly after eating a cushion. Serves him right. Prance, I mean. He treats the animal like a little prince."

As he spoke, the sound of the front door opening and men's voices echoed from the hallway. With Black on the job, it was not necessary for anyone to use the knocker. The gentlemen wore sheepish smiles as they came in. Luten's smile faded when he saw Byron had come along, but he was too proud to let any further trace of his annoyance show. After they were in, Coffen was the first to speak.

He said, "Much ado about nothing, as the saying goes."

Prance, his temper short from his wasted night, said, "That's not a saying. It's the title of a play."

"It's a saying now. I’m saying it, ain't I?" Coffen looked around for the wine decanter and poured himself a glass.

Black, hovering at the doorway, came forward to serve the others. "The sandwiches are on the way," he said aside to Coffen.

Coffen nodded and smiled. "Good man."

Luten, whose ankle was throbbing from the night's activities, felt a pang of remorse when he noticed that Byron's limp was more pronounced than usual. It must be hell to be saddled for life with that handicap. He said in a joking way, to remove the sting, "Sit here by the fire with me, Byron. The heat will do us two cripples good. We'll share the footstool."

"I only plan to stay a moment," Byron said, and remained standing as he didn't want his orthopedic shoe on such prominent display.

Prance lifted his coattails and perched on the arm of a chair. "I daresay Luten has told you of our disastrous failure?" he said to Corinne. He noticed her black dress and the walking shoes peeping out beneath the hem. He lifted an eyebrow and added in a low voice, "If it was necessary to tell you,
c'est a dire?"

Corinne was in no doubt as to his meaning. She should have changed her gown. "Yes, he told me. Pity," she said, and rushed on to mention that at least Mrs. Webber had her letters back.

They discussed the evening's failure over sandwiches and coffee. After a few moments had passed, Byron slid quietly on to a chair.

"Then you think we'll have another go at the Bee?" Byron asked, when Luten explained his theory. "We must try to get ahead of him the next time, figure out what he'll do, and be ready for him. It's unforgivable that we didn't foresee this simple stunt he pulled tonight. But how did he know we'd be there? That Mrs. Webber had consulted us, I mean?"

"Staring us in the face," Coffen said. "The leak came from Lady Jergen's house. That's where we discussed it. Either a servant or one of the ladies themselves is in on it. It all centres around her house. That's what the victims have in common."

"But Lady Callwood was the first victim," Byron pointed out, "and she was victimized before speaking to Lady Jergen."

Prance looked all around, then said, "Or said she was. How do we know it's true? Her description of the attacker doesn't match Mrs. Webber's or Lady Jergen's, and we know Mrs. Webber was robbed. She has the bump on her head to prove it."

"Lady Callwood wasn't there when we talked about intercepting the Bee tonight though," Byron mentioned.

"She's sharp as a bodkin," Prance scoffed. "When one stops to think of it, our plan was so obvious a child could have foreseen it. She knew we planned to help Lady Jergen, and—"

"But she didn't know Mrs. Webber had received a demand," Byron said.

Luten listened, then said, "If she's the Bee or in league with him, she didn't have to be told. She obviously knew Mrs. Webber would be paying up tonight."

Byron looked abashed, as did Prance. "You're right, of course," Byron said. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Next time we don't tell any of them a thing," Coffen said.

Luten had noticed Byron's quick defence of Lady Callwood. She was quite a beauty, married to an older man, and known to be a flirt. It was the talk of London that Byron couldn't resist a pretty woman. He almost boasted that his pockets were to let. Was it possible she and Byron were working together? If that were so, he doubted that France would benefit from it. More likely the two of them were planning to run off to the east together. Byron said quite openly he'd leave tomorrow if he weren't in hawk to his banker.

But if Byron was the B–he noticed the interesting letter of his title–would he have asked the Berkeley Brigade to help him? He must have known that to ask Prance would lead to the involvement of the whole group. Was he thumbing his nose at them by that bold stunt?

"I doubt there will be a next time, despite what you say, Luten," Prance said. "The Bee has gotten clean away with thirteen thousand pounds. Why risk his neck for more? It's our first failure."

"What do you mean, failure!" Coffen bellowed. "We ain't giving up yet. We've only started. What we've got to do is look over our clues."

"What clues would that be?" Prance asked with a withering stare. "The bump on Mrs. Webber's head?"

"Lord Horner's carriage for one," Coffen shot back.

"We don't know who bought it."

"We know who didn't, and that whoever did went to a load of trouble to hide the fact. That carriage has got to be some place. What we've got to do is get busy and find it, and find out who's using it."

"Which of the million or so persons in London do we begin with?" Prance asked.

"We don't begin with persons. We begin with mews and stables. He's got to keep it some place. And if that don't work, we still have Brighton, where it all started."

"Yes, several years ago," Prance reminded him. "One would have to be an archaeologist to dig up any clues there."

"Then call me a narkologist, for I'm going. There's the servants to quiz as well, and the ladies' man or men of business. If they all use the same one - well, that'd be quite a coincidence. Who would know better how much money they have?"

"I happen to know Lady Jergen's man of business is Mr. Appleby," Byron said. "He's Lady Melbourne's as well. They were discussing him the other evening."

"You wouldn't know if he's Webber's or Callwood's?" Coffen asked.

"No, but I expect I can find out from Lady Melbourne."

"Good lad. There's a start then. I'll nip down to Brighton tomorrow. Have a look at the registry at that George Inn where Mrs. Webber and her doctor–" He glanced uneasily at Corinne and said,
"you
know." Byron flickered a smile in Corinne's direction and was pleased to receive an answering smile.

"What will that tell you?" Prance asked.

"I'll see who else was there at the time. And if Mrs. Webber wasn't there, it'll tell me she was lying her head off. She shed a few too many tears to convince me she was really sorry."

Byron nodded. "A wise observation, Pattle. I was quite taken in at the time, but genuine grief is not usually so moist."

"Crocodile tears," Coffen said. "And furthermore when I tried to see them letters over her shoulder tonight, she folded them up pretty quick."

"She just might have considered them private," Prance said with heavy sarcasm.

"Why? She'd already told us what was in them."

"Still, a billet doux is a private letter, and it was farouche of you to try to read it."

"And there's another thing," he continued, unphased. "We could check up on that Hart Inn near Bath and see if there really was a robbery there three years ago when she said her letters were stolen. Funny that whoever took them waited so long to sell them back to her."

"She said two or three years ago," Prance said. "You won't prove anything that way. There was a rash of robberies at all the inns around that time. And the letters were hidden under the jewel case lining. He might not have discovered them until recently."

"That's odd too," Coffen continued. "A thief don't usually keep a thing like that jewelry case to incriminate him. He'd grab the pearls and dump the box, the way the cut-purses do."

Luten, watching Byron from the corner of his eye, said, "Let us not forget Lady Callwood. The crime for which she was held to ransom was theft.'

''She didn't steal the brooch though," Byron said at once. "It was actually given to her by her lover."

"So she claims," Luten replied. "She might have stolen it and convinced her lover to protect her."

"But then why tell us about it so frankly?" Byron parried. "What I wonder is how the Bee found out about it. Who would have read the Shepton journals? None of our suspects are from that area."

"Oh journals have a way of getting around," Prance said airily. "Someone mentions a story like that to someone, sends them a copy. It needn't be a person who actually knows Lady Callwood. Her name appears in the social columns regularly. Someone put two and two together, that's all."

When no one either argued or agreed, he changed the subject. "We know the Bee has a brash, taunting sense of humour. That business of calling himself Hummer and giving his address at Newman's stable as an apiary. I can see Lady Callwood enjoying that sort of jape."

Byron nodded as if in agreement. When he rose to take his leave a moment later, he said to Luten, "I'll ask Lady Melbourne to find out if Appleby works for Lady Callwood or Mrs. Webber."

"Thank you, Byron, that would help."

As soon as the door closed behind him, Luten said, "Which of you is going to follow him?"

Prance leapt to his feet. "Follow him?" he cried, high on his dignity. "No, that is going too far! Byron is a gentleman. You can't seriously believe he's in league with criminals who prey on helpless ladies!"