To Mourn a Murder (15 page)

He watched to see how the exchange would be handled. The Bee must be armed to the teeth to risk coming in that ancient rig. He might well have a couple of armed men hiding in the hackney. He watched as Mrs. Huston opened her carriage door and looked about. Best wait until she had her letter and was clear of gunfire before riding forth. When no one got out of the hackney, he began to wonder if he ought to do something. But what? Before he came to a decision Mrs. Huston began her walk to the hackney. He watched the whole thing as if it were on the stage at Drury Lane.

And a dashed good play it would make too, though he'd put a younger actress in it, with a better figure. Effie Maherne, now there was a handsome woman. Having the live nags on stage would be no problem. Last year Kemble had put an elephant and sixteen horses mounted by Spahis on stage in a production of
Bluebeard.
A dandy show. Prance declared it an intellectual crime, a deliberate effort to debase the public's taste by mere spectacle. Mind you, it hadn't stopped him from going back a second time.

Coffen jerked his thoughts back to attention. He drew his pistol from his pocket. If there was going to be trouble, this was when it would happen. He mentally conned his options. Should he go pacing forward now and haul the Bee out of the rig? He waited to see what Luten did. They couldn't put Mrs. Huston at risk. That was what was holding Luten back. As soon as she was back in his carriage, they'd both go after the Bee. That hackney wouldn't have a chance of outrunning them.

Dashed odd that a clever fellow like the Bee used such jades for a job like this.

Nossir, he wouldn't! There was something havey-cavey afoot here. Even as the thought occurred to him, the mounted rider flashed forward. He had snatched the diamonds from Mrs. Huston's fingers and pelted off before you could say Jack Robinson. The best description Coffen could give of him was that he had a head and two hands, and sat his mount well. The mount was a fine bit of blood, dark with a white blaze on its nose, like half the mounts in London. In the same instant, Coffen nudged his Nellie forward and was after him. His grip on the reins was tenuous, since he had his pistol in his right hand.

When the rider headed into that warren of small, mean, rat-infested streets to the west of the Abbey, Coffen felt another lurch of apprehension. It wasn't just the rats either. Any sort of bandit might be hiding there. Still, the Bee was ahead of him to take the first blast of whatever evil lurked–unless the Bee had set up a trap for anyone following him ... He chased the pounding hoofbeats, catching sight of a flying rump and tail at the first corner to show him the way. No rats so far, no shots, no traps. He pelted on through the darkness. It was just a few yards past the next turn that it happened.

Suddenly a stone wall over four feet high reared up in front of them. The Bee's nag cleared the hurdle with six inches to spare–obviously knew it was there. With a good run at it, Nellie could have cleared it, but coming upon it unexpectedly in the dark and not knowing what was on the other side, she bucked. Coffen, holding on with one hand and with only his evening slippers in the stirrups, was hurled from the saddle like a stone from a slingshot. His hat flew off. His bare head struck the wall. A blizzard of red and white and yellow snowflakes whirled before his eyes, soon dissipated by a black curtain, and he lay unconscious.

He knew, when he came to later, that more than a minute or two had passed. He didn't know how he knew. The moon was still high above him, gliding behind a cloud now. It was still the middle of the night, but he knew considerable time had passed. With Nellie laughing at him, he lifted a hand to his head and felt a lump the size of a plum growing right in the middle of his forehead. His head throbbed and his shoulder hurt, but at least the Bee hadn't put a bullet through him, as he very well could have. His own gun lay beside him. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. His hat was leaning against the wall and he reached for it. It wasn't until he tried to stand up that he realized he had twisted his leg in the fall. A hot, searing pain shot up from his left knee when he tried to stand.

Damme! How was he going to get back in the saddle? He needed that left foot to hoist himself aboard Nellie. After considerable difficulty, he mastered the knack of mounting from the other side and rode back to the Abbey, his knee aching like a bad tooth. As there was no sign of life there he rode on home to Berkeley Square, fortunately without incident. Bad as his head and knee hurt, it was his pride that had taken the greatest blow. The others were counting on him. Luten had seen him take off after the Bee. He'd be expecting him to come home wreathed in triumph. Poor Mrs. Huston would be expecting to have her diamonds back.

His watch told him it was after two o'clock, but there were still lights burning at Corinne's house, which told him the whole gang were waiting for him. And after such a long time, they'd think for sure he'd taken the Bee to Bow Street, had him arrested and all the rest of it. He felt a dashed fool as he half crawled, half fell out of the saddle. The lump on his head had grown so big he couldn't keep his hat on. When it fell to the ground, he hadn't the strength to pick it up. The few yards to Corinne's front door stretched ahead of him like a journey across a tractless waste.

If it hadn't been for Black's vigilance, he didn't think he would have made it. Black was watching and came rushing out to meet him and pick up his hat. "Just put your arm around my waist, Mr. Pattle, and let me assist you," he said. He half carried, half dragged Coffen into the house.

The others heard Black darting out and went to see what was happening. When they saw Coffen's condition, Prance and Corinne hurried forward to help. Luten came limping behind them, wincing at every step. He had forgotten his cane in the excitement.

Coffen didn't consider himself a sensitive man, but he felt a warm tear ooze out of his eyes when his friends gently laid him on the sofa, covered him with a blanket, rushed off for brandy and a cold compress for his forehead and sent a footman running for a sawbones. He couldn't have been treated better if he were a Prince. He felt loved and cherished, which made it all the harder to confess his failure.

Corinne gasped at the ugly purple lump on his forehead and whispered loud enough that he heard that she hoped poor Coffen didn't have a concussion. The rogue in Prance wanted to say, "How could one tell?" but he suppressed the snide remark. To atone for his mischievous thought, he said, "I shall take him home with me. We can't leave him in the hands of his own savage servants. They'll have him in his grave."

"I'll have him taken to my place," Luten countered. "We're half set up for an invalid there since my trouble."

"He's not to be moved! He's staying here," Corinne said in a voice that brooked no interference.

They were fighting over him! Coffen was flattered, and hoped that Corinne stuck to her guns. He liked staying at his cousin's. But would any of them want him when they heard the truth? He pulled himself up on his elbows and said in a choked voice, "He got away. I didn't catch him."

Corinne knelt beside him and patted his arm. "That's all right, Coffen. You're home alive, and that's all that matters. I'll take care of you until you're better. Now have a sip of this brandy and rest until the doctor arrives." She held a glass to his lips while he took a few gulps. It felt good, like liquid fire burning down his gullet.

"I just don't want you all making a hero of me when I let the Bee get away."

"You were very brave. Even heroes don't always succeed," she said, squeezing his fingers in a loving way. When he was able to hold his glass himself, she got a cold compress from Black and held it to the bump on his forehead.

The brandy revived him enough to sit propped up by pillows and tell his story before the doctor arrived. Luten related the tale of Ned Sullivan and the hackney that had formerly been Lord Horner's carriage.

Prance, perched on the arm of a chair, said, "It's a busy little Bee,
n'est-ce pas?
Quite apart from the actual purloining of the letters and other feats of discovery vis-à-vis Lady Callwood and the brooch, only look at all the effort it has gone to in the details. Buying Horner's carriage under an alias at Newman's stable, littering Lady Callwood's Queen Mab with dead bees, hunting out a likely driver for tonight's escapade, selling him the rig, writing that note. The man has an infinite capacity for detail. I always feel it is in the details that one discovers the true genius, whether it be that one fleck of impasto in a painting to highlight the eye, or one of Adam's superb medallions, or–”

"We get the idea, Reg," Luten said.

"Of course you do. And the fellow is every other inch a gentleman as well. I mean he does always give back to the lady the item offered for sale. He didn't have to give Mrs. Huston Phoebe's letter. Do you know, I find myself half admiring him."

"The man is a wretch!" Corinne howled. "I won't hear a good word about him in my house. Only look what he's done to Coffen."

"This so-called gentlemanly streak is only to insure compliance from his future victims," Luten explained again.

"Well, in any case, I trust you now admit it has nothing to do with Napoleon," Prance sniffed.

"I daresay you're right," Luten mumbled. "I can't imagine that French spies have ferreted out the Huston's secret shame."

Coffen, sipping at the brandy and wishing he had some food to go with it, said, "Speaking of details, did anyone remember to see to Nellie?"

“Black took care of your mount," Corinne replied. "He, too, is a genius in the details. I don't know what I would do without him." Black, listening at the keyhole, smiled in infinite satisfaction. How sweetly the words fell on his listening ears, swelling his heart with joy.

Coffen winced as a fresh needle of pain pierced his knee. When it passed, he said, "I daresay the scoundrel's too clever to sell Mrs. Huston's diamonds any time soon. Mean to say, they could be a clue. We could inquire at Stop Hole Abbey, see if we can get a line on somebody trying to sell them to a fence, since we know what they look like. Or Mrs. Huston does at least."

Luten said he would have someone look into it. When Doctor Croft arrived the onlookers withdrew to the morning parlour. They all sat silent, thinking, until Prance looked up and said, "Have we met our match, Luten? Is this to be our first failure?"

"This is one we
must
solve," Corinne said firmly. "I take Coffen's accident as a personal insult."

"Which is very foolish of you," Prance chided. "The word accident, by its very nature, precludes any personal animosity. Accidents are a matter of chance, fortune, mishap. The Bee didn't personally attack Coffen. One can hardly hold a grudge against a stone wall."

"Don't be pedantic," she scoffed. "The accident wouldn't have happened if Coffen hadn't been chasing the Bee."

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Prance inquired.

"We wait for him to strike again, as he surely will," Luten said. "And next time, we leave nothing to chance. We cover every possible contingency, if we have to call out every Bow Street Officer in town, and the Guard besides."

Corinne sighed and said, "I forgot to offer Coffen something to eat. He must be concussed, or he would have asked for food."

"How very feminine of you, my pet," Prance said. "You can still surprise me after all these years. Don't glare. I meant it as a compliment."

Black came to inform them that the doctor was leaving. As they went into the hall, Corinne said to her butler, "Bring the sandwiches, Black, and some of that plum cake."

He silently gestured to the hall table, where the silver tray, well laden, sat in readiness. His reward, more welcome than money, was a smile from his beloved and a pat on the hand. He lifted the tray high and followed Luten and Prance into the room while Corinne had a word with the doctor before joining them. She was relieved to know Coffen would recover from the head bump and the leg was not broken. The medicine Croft had given him to ease the pain would make him sleepy. He would call on the morrow to see how his patient was going on.

"Oh Coffen, you're sitting up," she cried, when she was saw him. "Is that wise?" As she drew closer, she saw that his pantaloons had been cut away. A bandage ran from above the knee to the ankle. "What on earth—"

"It ain't busted. Just badly wrenched. It had swollen so big my trouser leg was strangling it. Croft said not to put any weight on it for a week or so. Would you happen to have a spare cane about you could lend me, Luten? Or them crutches you were using a while back?"

"Yes, I'll send them over."

"Good. I wouldn't want to have to be carried home on a litter." His blue eyes peered hopefully at Corinne as he spoke.

"You're staying here tonight," she said. Then she passed him the sandwiches and poured tea.

As they all sat, eating and drinking, Prance said, "With you two limping, it begins to look as if the onus has shifted to
moi.
Dear me. How often the old sayings prove true. Misfortunes come in three's. Three of you hors de combat."

"You're bosky," Coffen said. "There's just two of us, me and Luten."

"You forget Lord Byron."

"Byron ain't one of us."

"Of course not, but he did bring us into this mess. And for that matter, he was involved in our last case."

"You're right about one thing anyhow," Coffen said. "You're going to have to stir your stumps and nip down to Brighton tomorrow, Reg. Somebody's got to look for clues there. Brighton's definitely a part of it."

"And Lady Jergen is another," Prance pointed out. "It can't have escaped your notice that yet another victim is a friend of hers."

Luten said, "It's someone in her set. Someone who knows the same ladies as she does and has ferreted out their secrets. She wouldn't keep sending victims to us if she were the guilty party. What we have to do is discover more about the set she runs with. Byron mentioned meeting her at Melbournes."

"That brings in the Devonshire House set," Prance said. "Strange to think of two such unlikely sets being connected via Lady Jergen. The Devonshire household is irregular to be sure, what with wives and mistresses all living together as one happy family, but one can hardly credit that the richest duke in England is involved."