Murder Is Come Again (8 page)

“I wouldn’t want to meet you in a back alley. I hope they’re not full of bugs.”

“No, Black checked for that. He wouldn’t take any with bedbugs.”

Corinne looked alarmed. “Are you sure, Black?”

“Very sure, milady. I know a bedbug to see it. I checked their hiding places, seams and hems is where they lurk. I wouldn’t bring that affliction down on you.”

Prance stared. “You are a veritable encyclopedia, Black,” he said. “Dare one ask where you come by such knowledge?”

“He wasn’t born with a silver knife in his tongue like you,” Coffen said sharply.

“You mean, perhaps, silver spoon in his mouth.”

“Not even silver-plated,” Black said, with a fine air of nonchalance, which he found the best way of dealing with Sir Reginald.

The uncomfortable moment passed and they talked until darkness had settled in, then Luten said, “Let us get Mary moved before Brown gets into the house. Is your carriage out front, Reg?”

“No, but Pelkey is standing by outside. I asked him to come back.”

“We’d best take your rig, then. My crest might be recognized, and Coffen’s curricle is obviously not big enough. It would take Fitz an age to get here with his carriage. You must let Pelkey know this is strictly confidential.”

“My servants are completely trustworthy,” Prance assured him. He sent Pelkey off for his carriage. Prance had bought an expensive but anonymous black carriage during his spy phase. He disliked the thought of using it as a hearse, but he wasn’t entirely happy with the anonymous nature of the rig in any case and had been thinking of changing it for something more dashing. Something that would befit a highwayman when he was not mounted on his Arab gelding, robbing the rich and wooing an as yet unnamed heroine in distress.

Corinne usually insisted on taking part in such excursions as this. To Luten’s surprise she said that as space in the carriage was limited, she didn’t mind passing up this one. She had seen enough corpses. The ghastly images haunted her for days afterwards.

The removal of Mary’s corpse went smoothly. As her body was still as they had left it that afternoon, they assumed Brown had not found it. They removed the bloodied pillowcase and sheet and bundled them up to remove for burning. They wrapped her in the linen sheet and carried her, Black holding her legs, Coffen her head, through the darkness to the waiting carriage. Raucous voices were already issuing from the Brithelmston Tavern, but no one came out. The body was placed on one banquette with Coffen holding the head, the other three gentlemen crowded together on the other side, Prance holding the flowers.

They met a few carriages and mounted riders on the drive out the busy Dyke Road. When they turned in at the cemetery the crescent moon, the weeping yews etched in black against the silver sky, the tombstones, pale in the moonlight, and the wind soughing through the trees lent an eerie air of menace to the place. No guard was to be seen.

 Coffen was allowed to choose her resting-place. He thought she would like to be near the road, as she liked the scene of action, but common sense told him they might be spotted from the road and he chose a flat tombstone farther in. After Prance arranged the flowers artfully on her breast, Coffen reminded them they were to perform a burial service.

This sort of thing was a job for Prance, who always enjoyed performing and was seldom at a loss for words. He hadn’t brought the
Book of Common Prayer
with him on this holiday but ad libbed a creditable substitution of the service. Then Coffen plucked off one white lily and they hastened back to the carriage.

They returned to Marine Parade where Luten asked Mrs. Partridge to dispose of the soiled linen from Nile Street. When Luten left the kitchen, she said to Partridge, “I’ll try to bleach the blood out. If it stains, I’ll use the material for rags. You can never have too many rags. Where do you figure these came from, Partridge?”

“I don’t figure they’ve been slaughtering a cow or pig.”

“It’ll be Brigade business,” she said, satisfied with this vague conclusion.

Abovestairs, the Berkeley Brigade discussed plans for finding Mary’s killer. As was the custom, Evans had served food and drink. Coffen, Corinne noticed, was not enjoying his usual hearty appetite, but kept fondling a wilted lily, until she passed him the gingerbread, at which time he set the flower aside and took up his fork. She was ravenously hungry herself, and ate heartily. The sea air was giving her a strong appetite.

“Till we can get hold of Scraggs, we’ll work on Flora and her beau,” Luten said. “You mentioned having a word with Weir, Black, to see if you can get a line on what sort of treasure Bolger might have concealed in the house.”

“I’ll ask if Flora’s mother ever worked for him as well,” Black said.

“How about Mrs. Beazely?” Corinne asked. “She might know something as she worked in the house until Bolger’s death.”

“Weir will know where I can get hold of her,” Black said.

Luten sat, frowning, then said, “Interesting that Scraggs lives at the Brithelmston Tavern, and this Mad Jack fellow disappears there as well. It seems to be a centre for crime — and it’s within a stone’s throw of Coffen’s house. I wonder if there’s any connection between Scraggs and Mad Jack, and indirectly, Mary Scraggs and Mad Jack.”

Black said. “Are you thinking Bolger’s treasure might be Mad Jack’s loot, or part of it?”

“I hardly know what I’m thinking,” Luten admitted, “but it’s a coincidence.”

“Then there’s bound to be something in it,” said Coffen, who had the greatest mistrust of coincidences when it came to crime. “If that’s the way it is, then Bolger would have known who this Mad Jack fellow is.”

“It can’t do any harm to get a line on him,” Luten said, lifting an eyebrow in Black’s direction.

“I’ll try,” Black said, “but the whole world seems blind and deaf and dumb when it comes to Mad Jack.”

“Try money,” was Coffen’s advice. “I’ll provide it.”

“He sounds a dangerous fellow,” Corinne cautioned. “Let us see what we can learn from Weir and Mrs. Beazely first.”

This was agreed, and it was arranged that Luten would accompany Black and Coffen when they called on Weir in the morning. He wanted to meet this Weir. It had occurred to him that Weir might know a good many things. He saw more of Bolger than anyone else did, and lived at the Brithelmston. He might have an idea at least who this Mad Jack was. He might even be the connecting link between the two.

As often happened with them, the execution of their plan was delayed due to a more frightening occurrence in the morning.

Over breakfast the next morning the Lutens were discussing the plans they had made the night before when once again they were interrupted by bad news. A pale-faced Black didn’t wait to be announced but came barging into the breakfast parlour, puffing like a grampus from the fast pace he had set to bring the news.

“What is it, Black?” Corinne asked in alarm.

He fell on to a chair. “Mr. Pattle’s in clink,” he gasped out, reverting in his distress to the language of former days.

“What, arrested?” Luten demanded. “What the devil for?”

“For murdering Mary Scraggs. Her body was found right enough. A rat catcher was taking a short cut through the cemetery at dawn and found her, just as we left her, except I believe the flowers were gone or Brown would have mentioned them. Likely the rat catcher took them and sold them.”

“But why blame Coffen?” Corinne asked.

Black, in his distress, couldn’t sit still. He rose and paced back and forth, wringing his hands. “An anonymous note, according to Brown. It’s the work of whoever’s after the treasure, depend on it.”

“What was in the note? What evidence do they have?” Luten asked.

“Whoever killed Mary prigged her bonnet and purse and planted them in Mr. Pattle’s curricle. The ten pounds were missing, not that it matters now, but it proves to my satisfaction that the tip came from whoever was at his house the night she was murdered, and murdered her.”

“It certainly looks that way,” Corinne agreed.

“Now we know why the reticule and bonnet were missing,” Luten said. “They took them on purpose to point the finger at Coffen. Whatever is hidden in that house must be worth a great deal, to go to so much trouble.”

“Aye, there’s rum quids in it for someone,” Black said.

Corinne turned a trusting eye on her husband. “Can’t you do something, Luten?”

Luten squared his jaw, tossed aside his napkin as he rose from the table and said grimly, “The first thing to do is go down to the gaol and get him out.”

“You’d best take a lawyer with you,” said Black, the expert in matters criminal. “They’re strict when the charge is murder. Do you know a lawyer in town?”

“Deveril’s the man for this. I don’t know him but I know of him. I’ll pick him up on the way.”

“Can I go with you, Luten?” Black asked. “I can’t just sit idle and do nothing while Mr. Pattle’s in gaol.”

Corinne could see Luten’s reluctance and soon figured out the cause of it. Black, despite his best efforts, still had the air of the criminal about him. His presence wouldn’t do Coffen any good.

“Why don’t we go to the mews where Coffen stables his curricle and ask if anyone was seen snooping around there?” she said to Black.

Helping Mr. Coffen was the one thing in the world that might restrain Black, and it didn’t hurt that she had said ‘we’. When Luten said, “She’s right, Black. Would you mind? You may be sure I’ll move heaven and bend earth to get him out.”

“Come right back and let us know, one way or the other,” Corinne said. Before Black had a chance to object the thing was done. Luten, with a nod of approval at his wife for her quick thinking went dashing out. Black was so upset he didn’t even think to become Lord Blackmore.

“Shall I call for your carriage, milady?” he said. “It might be faster to walk. It’s not far.”

“Let us take the carriage. If we find out who was there, we might want to go after him.”

“Happen you’re right.” He sent for the carriage, then accepted a cup of coffee and sat down to wait and worry while her ladyship got her bonnet.

Luten had to use his considerable influence, Deveril’s ingenuity and a large sum in bail to get the accused out, but within the hour he had Coffen released in his custody. It helped that Mr. Brown had a strong suspicion that Mr. Pattle was no more the murderer than he was himself. Why would he kill Mary Scraggs? He was a perfectly respectable gentleman, and there wasn’t much Mary Scraggs wouldn’t do for a well inlaid gent like Pattle. Who he wanted to blame for the murder and every other crime in town was Mad Jack. He couldn’t see how he was involved, but if the Berkeley Brigade could turn up some evidence against him and remove this nemesis from his town, he would be exceedingly grateful.

The groom in charge of the mews at the Royal Crescent swore that no one had been next or night Mr. Pattle’s rattler and prads. “For it’s the finest rig and team here. I’ve taken a special interest in it and keep a sharp eye on it. It must have happened somewhere else. Had he left it parked anywhere?”

Black cast his mind back, but he could think of no time or place so likely to have access to the rig as a more or less public stable at night. “Who’s here at night?” he asked the head ostler. “You can’t work twenty-four hours a day.”

“A youngster called Timmy White, but he’d have told me if anyone was prowling about.”

“Do you keep the door locked at night?”

“Closed but not locked. This is a hotel. Folks arrive and leave at all hours. Timmy lets them in and out.”

But it was not likely that many would be arriving or leaving in the middle of the night. His roving eye had already espied the straw bed covered in a blanket in the corner. It was four pence to a groat that Timmy was asleep half the time. Black didn’t bother with further questions. It didn’t matter when or how the incriminating objects had been put into the rig so much as
who
had done it, and this groom didn’t know.

He led Lady Luten back to her carriage. “Can you think of anything else we can do?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t mind a word with Flora, at the tourist shop. Not that the brass box will tell us anything.”

“Let us go. I’d like to get a look at her.”

Black directed the groom to the tourist shop. Flora cast a bold, almost a mocking smile on them. “Back for another look at our wares, Mr. Black?” she said, before turning her eyes to examine Lady Luten.

Lady Luten began looking at the tawdry items on display, most of them cheap items featuring some aspect of Brighton on them, and the city’s name in gilt. She lifted a jug bearing a likeness of the Prince Regent and even considered buying it for Luten as a joke. A small vase of yellow roses on the desk, fading but still with their petals, caught her eye. There had been yellow roses in that bouquet Prance brought for Mary’s laying out.

When she turned her attention back to Flora, she was saying, “How’s your friend Mr. Pattle today, Mr. Black?”

“Fine. I’ll be meeting with him shortly at his house. Why do you ask?”

She gave another of her bold smiles. “I thought he might be reconsidering my offer to work for him.”

Black gave her a steely, menacing stare. “He hasn’t forgotten your keen interest in his house,” he said. Then he turned to Corinne. “Shall we go, Lady Luten?”

Corinne turned a bland eye to Flora. “Your flowers need water,” she said. “They’re wilting.”

Flora just glanced at the vase and gave a tsk of annoyance. “So they are, and I bought them only this morning from old Meg, at the corner stall.”

“That was sharp work, milady,” Black complimented her, when they left. “I didn’t notice the flowers. From Sir Reginald’s bouquet, are they?”

“They looked like it, not that we can prove it.”

“She never batted an eye when you twitted her. Very likely the rat catcher sold them to old Meg.”

“What a bold hussy she is. I wouldn’t trust that smug grin an inch. She knows perfectly well Pattle has been arrested. She was practically crowing when she asked after him.”

“I agree, but I don’t see what we can do about it till we find some hard evidence.”