Let's Talk of Murder (25 page)

“The girls are out-of-work actresses, are they?” Luten asked.

“He has a few actresses downstairs, making ends meet until they get another acting job, but the ones who perform for an audience are not professional actresses. Remarkably pretty girls, they are.” Townsend colored up and added hastily, “I attended a performance or two in the way of business, you know, keeping an eye on things.”

“Yes, of course,” Luten said, chewing back a grin. “I wonder where he gets these beauties?”

“Oh, there’s no shortage of pretty young things in a big city. They come from the country, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, thinking to make their fortune as parlor maids or modistes or marrying a duke or some such thing, and end up peddling their charms on street corners.”

Luten sat a moment, thinking. “Clare’s whole business seems to be a not very well kept secret. My thinking is that Clare wouldn’t murder Fogg because he had found out about it. Too many others know. And it seems Fanny was a willing participant. If Clare did murder Fogg and Fanny, there must be another reason. Something we’ve missed.”

“I don’t see what it could be,” Townsend said. “It’s what I call a cat crime.” Luten looked a question at him. “As opposed to a dog crime. There are some criminals who can’t control themselves. Like a dog with a beefsteak, they see something they want, and they take it. Or if we’re talking about violent crimes, they get angry and beat their wives or companions or whatever. If they fall into a real passion, they kill their victim, but you don’t get a sense of much planning in it. They bark and lash their tails and everyone within a mile of them knows they’re mad and runs for cover.

“Then there are the cats. You’d never know to look at them they had an angry bone in their bodies. They slink about in the bushes, waiting for robin redbreast to come digging for a worm. Then— whish!” He clapped his hands together. “Mr. Cat has got his bird. Aye and they’re canny creatures. Have you ever seen youngsters pelting them with stones? The cat will run just far enough that the stones can’t reach him, then stop, turn back and laugh at them. It hardly needs saying the cats are harder to catch than the dogs.”

After a frowning pause, Luten said, “But even a cat doesn’t kill for no reason. I wonder if money is at the bottom of it. Perhaps Clare is claiming his ladies of pleasure and actresses as inmates of the Morgate Home, charging the sect money for their board.”

Townsend shook his grizzled head. “Nay, that would hardly be a drop in the bucket to a man with Clare’s gold. What would it cost to house and feed a dozen girls? He makes a fortune at his bawdy house. I doubt he’d risk Morgate’s wrath for that.”

They sat a moment, frowning at the floor. Luten said, “What could he have feared enough to make him kill Fogg and Fanny?”

“P’raps ‘twas young Morrison who did it after all. I’ll look into his doings.”

“Look into any doings related to the Morgate Home and Clare’s bawdy house in Lambeth as well, Townsend. There’s got to be something. I’m going there this morning to see Mrs. Bruton.”

“I’ll join you. It will put a fright into them to see the law taking an interest,” he said, and picking up his wide-brimmed white hat, he led Luten out the door.

* * * *

Corinne didn’t know whether she was more flattered or annoyed when Black sent word abovestairs that Lord Byron was below and wished a word with her. She felt it was only a courtesy visit, however, and went to greet him. He looked as handsome as she remembered, and it was very strange that she could not work herself into a passion over such an illustrious hero.

He handed her a bouquet of roses . “I came to apologize for that disastrous do at Lady Sefton’s,” he said.

“Oh really, it’s not necessary,” she replied, accepting them and showing him to a seat. “It‘s I who should apologize for leaving. “

“When a lady is having such a wretched time that she has to flee the party, then her escort owes her an abject apology.”

“Oh indeed I wasn’t having that wretched a time,” she assured him. “Something came up.”

“A headache, no doubt?” he asked, with a quizzing smile. “When all else fails, a lady can always count on a friendly headache to rescue her.”

“No, it was more serious than that. Fanny Rowan, the girl Henry Fogg got into the Morgate Home, was killed.”

“Good lord! Another one! Did she jump from the roof as well?”

Corinne felt a jolt to her heart. “What do you mean, another one?” she cried.

“Was it not at the Morgate Home that some young girl committed suicide last spring? I was speaking to Hobouse, a friend, about our visit there, and he recalled the event. I remembered my factotum, Fletcher, discussing the case. The servants were all reading about it in the scandal sheets. The girl leapt from the roof of the building. What was her name? Something pretty— Yes, Rosalie something. She was practically a child, sixteen I believe. It was said she was despondent because of her pregnancy, when she was unmarried, you know. The curious thing was that it turned out she wasn’t enceinte at all.”

Corinne listened in horror. She didn’t read the scandal sheets herself, but she had a vague memory of Black mentioning some girl jumping from a roof. Such things were not uncommon in the city. She hadn’t heard, or remembered the details of the case.

For some reason, she thought of Beth, and those bruises on her arms. Clare said Beth was not pregnant either. “No, actually Fanny was shot,” she said. “Her body was found in the Thames.”

“Definitely murder, then, unlike the other case.  I‘m beginning to wonder now if Rosalie did jump, or if she was pushed.”

“Why do you say that?”

Byron splayed his white hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “I’m merely thinking out loud, really. But if Fanny discovered there’s something untoward going on at the Morgate Home and that caused her murder, then it suggests the possibility at least that Rosalie might have discovered the same thing, and also have been murdered. “

“Yes, that makes sense! And with Fanny dead, we’ll never find out what it was. Perhaps Sally–” She told him about Coffen’s actress friend.

“But how intriguing. I’ve a mind to go there myself. Will you come with me?” The gleam in her eyes told him she was eager to go. He watched in confusion as it faded to frustration.

“Actually Luten is there this afternoon,” she replied. “If there’s anything to be learned, he’ll learn it.”

Byron just smiled. “If I know Luten, he’ll cross examine the Turk who runs the place. My specialty is younger women. I could talk to them. Perhaps that’s best done without an audience, as I’m trying to convince you of my respectability.” He rose, pushing himself up from the chair by the use of his strong arms and added with a bland smile, “I wouldn’t want to shock you.”

“I’m beginning to feel nothing would shock me. Oh dear! I didn’t even offer you a glass of wine. Thank you for the lovely flowers, milord.”

“My pleasure.” He stood silent a moment, just gazing at her with a wistful glimmer in his long-lashed eyes. “I shan’t bother you again with any flirtation, Lady deCoventry. Not for lack of interest, I promise you, but because you’re obviously in love with Lord Luten, and he with you.”

She gave him a sad smile and said, “Oh no! He dislikes me entirely. “

He cocked his head and uttered a disbelieving laugh. “Yes, I noticed last evening how much he dislikes you. Loathing, you know, is only the other side of loving. It’s indifference we must watch out for. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you last night, except to scowl at me. In my checkered career, I have thus far avoided a duel. I should be quite happy to fight one for you, but I fear you’d be praying that Luten won. So, I shall leave you now.”

She wanted to believe Byron was right, that Luten did still care for her, and if so, she didn’t want to risk losing him by going out with Byron again.

He lifted her hand to his lips, brushed a kiss on her fingers, bowed and left.

Corinne listened as his halting step proceeded to the front door. She smelled the roses. They were very pretty, but the kind that didn’t have much scent. She gave them to Black as she left the drawing room.

“Put these in a vase, will you, Black.”

“For your boudoir, milady?” he asked archly.

“The drawing room. Wherever you think they look well. I’m going over to see Prance. If Coffen calls, tell him I’m there.”

“And if him across the road calls?” he asked with another arch look.

“Lord Luten will not be calling.”

“I’ll just nip over and tell Evans that Lord Byron was here. That’ll get the pot boiling, see if it don’t.”

“No, I’d rather you not do that.”

“True, Evans will have seen it for hisself and tell his lordship. No need for us to go boasting.”

One day she would really have to speak to Black about his appalling familiarity, but she hadn’t the heart to tackle him that day. He held her mantle tenderly, as if he were one of the graces, draping Venus as she rose from the sea. She slanted her bonnet over her eye and he opened the door. Lord Byron’s empty carriage was still standing in the street. He must have called on Prance. It occurred to her that if Prance was going with Byron, she could tag along. Luten couldn’t think it was a romantic outing if Prance was there as well.

Prance’s door opened and the gentlemen headed for Byron’s carriage. She ran out to meet them. “I changed my mind,” she said to Byron, then turned to Prance. “Did Byron tell you about Rosalie, Reggie?”

“Yes, we were just discussing how we could look into it.”

“I expect Townsend would be our best bet,” she suggested. “Odd he didn’t know of it.”

“It was definitely written up as a suicide at the time,” Byron explained. “Perhaps we could get hold of the reports in the journals. The scandal sheets made a big thing of it.”

“Nobody keeps journals that long,” Prance said. “I might institute queries and see if I can find who wrote the story. But what about Morrison? Coffen made a pretty good case against him.”

“For Fogg’s and Fanny’s murder, not for Rosalie’s,” Corinne said.

“But the stories said Rosalie committed suicide.”

She was wringing her hands impatiently. “They said that. If someone wanted to kill her and make it look like suicide, that was a perfect way to go about it.”

“Try to calm yourself, my pet. Worrying won’t help.”

“I keep thinking of Beth,” she said. “Clare said he had got her a position at a vicarage. Now I don’t believe it. And she had bruises on her arms.”

“She fell down the stairs.”

“I want to make sure she doesn’t fall off the roof!”

“Come now, Prance, act like a man,” Byron urged. “We’ve got to get the girl out of there.”

“How?” Prance asked, tossing up his hands.

“I don’t know, but we’re going to do it,” Byron said, and headed for the carriage.

Corinne frowned. “What was his name, that vicar who was going to take Beth into his home?”

“The name was Hill or Dale, something rustic,” Prance replied.

“Dale, that’s it!” she exclaimed. “We need someone to pose as Dale. We’ll say he’s come to take her away. How can they refuse to let her go?”

Byron turned back, waiting impatiently. “They can ask for identification,” he warned. “And if there really is a Dale, then Beth will surely announce that our man is not he.”

“Not if she’s desperate to get out of that place, and I believe she is,” Corinne said. “I have it! Black! He’ll make a perfect vicar.”

“Yes, as long as he doesn’t open his mouth,” Prance scoffed. “Not much chance of that, is there? His tongue runs like a stream.”

“We’ll tell him what to say. I’ll fetch him! Wait for me.”

She flew across the street to discuss this masquerade with Black, who would joyously have held his hand in the fire for his goddess, let alone pretend to be a vicar.

Prance took the butler in hand for the transformation into a credible vicar. Nothing could be done with his suit, which Prance declared was much too fine for any village vicar he had ever seen. The suit was concealed under an old coat left at Corinne’s house by a friend of Mrs. Ballard. His hair was parted in the center, Mrs. Ballard’s reading spectacles added to his nose and they were off. Black did not have to be told to alter his confident stride to a more vicar-like shuffle. The uncertainty to his vision caused by the spectacles took care of that.

While the carriage hastened to its destination, Prance did what he could to rub the rough edges off Black’s speech, and finally took refuge in exhorting him to say as little as possible. Black’s origins were uncertain, but certainly not genteel. Once across the bridge, Black transferred into a hackney for the final leg of the trip.

Black went into the Morgate Home while the others waited down the street. He had been warned that Lord Luten might be there and was not surprised to see his head and shoulders through the glass partition of Mrs. Bruton’s alcove. Luten would not betray him when he was announced as a vicar. What did cause Black a moment’s consternation was to see Townsend was there as well. There was a time when Black had been no stranger to Bow Street. Fortunately, Townsend did not recognize him in his disguise after all these years. Luten looked at him with a startled expression. Black slowly winked one eye, and his lordship was sharp enough to hold his tongue.

Black was left standing outside the alcove door while his message was delivered to Mrs. Bruton. The gray-clad girl who took the message returned in a moment to announce that Beth Kilmer was not feeling well. She was confined to her bed with a cold.

“I hope it’s not serious!” Black exclaimed, fearing the worst.

“Oh no, sir, but she’ s not feeling up to traveling at the moment.”

“Is that so?” Black said, shaking his head sadly. “I have come all the way from the vicarage and hoped to take her back with me today. I must leave today.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Mrs. Bruton says she can’t be disturbed.”

“Well, perhaps I can wait until tomorrow. I’ll be back.”

“Yessir.”

Black left, climbed into the waiting hackney cab and drove two blocks to where Byron, Sir Reginald and Corinne were waiting for him. He related what had happened, and said, “Did you know Townsend is with his lordship?”