“I fear we’re too late. You wouldn’t have heard the news. Bolton’s dead,”
he said, sorrow and anger vying with less negative emotions, for there was little dearer to Coffen’s heart than a murder to investigate.
Black felt a rush of similar emotions. “I’m sorry to hear it. I take it you’re not talking about natural causes?”
“The most brutal murder I’ve seen in a while. Stabbed through the throat. Blood all over him.”
He gave a shudder as he remembered the sight.
“Then no one would have heard a shot,”
was Black’s comment. “A knife’s nice and quiet. It’s all part and parcel of that message Bolton gave Sir Reginald to deliver then, and the break-ins?”
“It looks that way.”
“Any evidence left behind at all?”
Black asked.
“One clue,”
Coffen replied, and showed him the paper Bolton had marked with his blood. He described what they had seen in Bolton’s room. “Have you had any luck here?”
“I’ve seen nothing you could call out of the way. I don’t really know what I’m looking for, Mr. Pattle. I’ve spotted an unlocked back door into the place.”
“You’d best show me,”
Coffen said, and Black led him around to the door. He gave the place a thorough scrutiny but found no tell-tale trace of the murderer. As they returned to the street he said, “You never know. This door might turn out to be a clue. Till we have a word with Luten, we don’t know what or who might be suspicious. Might as well ankle along home. Could you rustle us up a cab?”
Black, always ready for any emergency, drew a whistle from his pocket and gave it a blast. A hackney soon came around the corner and they got in. “I’ll have a word with Luten and let you know,”
Coffen said when they reached Berkeley Square.
“I’d appreciate it, Mr. Pattle. Always glad to help. I’ve nothing but time now, so don’t hesitate. I’d be thankful for any little job,”
he said with a wistful sigh, and peered to see if he had touched Pattle’s heart. Pattle was already halfway across the street.
Luten was at home when Coffen called. “He’s in his study,”
Corinne said. She was with Mrs. Ballard, sorting through the items brought over from her own house to see what might be used here, and to decide what to do with the rest. Mrs. Ballard was having a hay-day snatching up well-worn linens and well used household items for her various charities. “Or did you come to see me?”
“Him,”
Coffen said and darted off before she could pester him with troublesome questions. He found Luten at his desk, studying a map of London.
“What’s up?”
Coffen asked.
“We’ve been asked to take on the case,”
Luten said. “Did you find out anything?”
“Not till I know what I’m looking for. I didn’t see anyone suspicious about the place. Black was there. He didn’t spot anything either.”
“At Hopley’s request, I notified Townsend about Bolton’s murder. It’s to be treated as an ordinary murder, and the Berkeley Brigade is to take an interest.”
Coffen’s wordless smile spoke volumes. “Anything I can do to help?”
Luten outlined what Hopley had told him. “The first step is to get a man to pay a few visits to the Sheepwalk tavern in Portland Town, in St. John’s Wood. Someone they won’t recognize.”
“That lets you out,”
Coffen said. “It’ll have to be someone eunonymous, like me.”
Unlike Prance, Luten never bothered correcting Coffen’s linguistic errors.
“You’re a known member of our little Brigade. I was thinking Black might be the man for the job. He’s certainly awake on all suits. The only setback is that he wouldn’t understand if they spoke French.”
“No more would I,”
Coffen said. “Reggie’s the only one of us other than yourself that speaks the lingo, and he’s
horse de combat,
as you might say. Black would give his eyeteeth to do it. He’s bored to flinders since he can’t be spying for Corrie. Mind you, he does know a few words of the bongjaw, recognize it if he heard it being spoken at least, and he’d certainly do a good job of following any likely suspect. Did the fellow you visited — Hopley did you say? —
have any notion who the mor might be, the letters poor Bolton wrote with his last blood?”
“Unfortunately, no. If Bolton had discovered the man’s identity, he hadn’t yet told Hopley. He gave him a description at least,”
he said, and gave Coffen the details. “If we could pinpoint such a man at the Sheepwalk, follow him home and discover his name starts with mor, we’d pretty well have the case solved.”
“Right, I’ll get straight on to Black. Have you heard from Prance?”
“No, I’m afraid Prance is completely out of it for the present.”
“Can I tell him what’s afoot?”
“It’s a case for the Brigade. He’ll be in high dudgeon if we don’t keep him informed. He knows how to keep a secret. And he might have an idea who the mor person could be. He has a wide circle of friends and acquaintances in the right age group.”
“Then I’ll drop in on him after I see Black. How about Corrie?”
“I don’t see how she can put herself at any risk with this case. I’ll let her know we’re working on Bolton’s death, but not the involvement with Hopley.”
“That should satisfy her. I’ll let you know how it goes with Black, but I can tell you right now he’ll be in alt to help. He’s lonesome as a lobster, sitting alone in that house.”
Luten opened his desk drawer and handed Coffen a jingle of coins. “This is to defray his expenses for rides and ale at the tavern.”
“I planned to do that myself, but if you like —”
He took the money and nipped across the street. Black, on guard as usual, had the door open for him. They went into the little room that served as the butler’s lookout.
“I have a job for you, Black,”
he said, and told him the plan, with all the details as to the man he was looking for, and what to do if he spotted him. Black couldn’t have been more thrilled if he’d won the lottery. He was back in the game! There would be meetings at Luten’s place,
she’d
be there. Like Coffen, he also relished the mystery for its own sake. He missed the danger and excitement of his former life. When Coffen handed him the money, he felt like a king. Enough guineas there to let him go in style.
“About the Sheepwalk,”
Black said. “I know the place. It’s more than a tavern, it’s an inn. I could book a room there for a couple of days. You learn more if you’re staying there. Carry on with the maids and so on. Since you didn’t give a clue whether the meetings take place in the day time or at night —
I mean a fellow can’t spend twenty-fours in the tap room without folks wondering.”
“True. And you’d end up drunk as a lord.”
“Not when I’m working,”
Black said, rising and throwing out his chest.
“No offence, Black, but even you must have your limits. You might try your hand at sweet-talking one of the maids into letting you into a suspect’s room.”
Black picked up the coins and jingled them in his palm. “Here’s the kind of sweet-talk that works every time.
“I’ve noticed that,”
Coffen said.
“I’d best go and pack a few things. The sooner I get started, the better. I’ll keep in close touch, Mr. Pattle. Should I contact yourself or his lordship?”
“Both. Just me if it’s not important, but if you can finger the lad, let us both know pronto. Or as pronto as you can, bearing in mind you have to follow him when he leaves. And keep a sharp eye out for your own safety, Black. If they should get on to you —
well, you know what happened to Bolton.”
“Forewarned is forearmed.”
“Right. I’ll nip across to see how Prance is doing.”
To his amazement, Prance’s house was already so neat you’d never know it had been messed up. Prance sat in his bijou drawing room, brooding. Not long ago the room had been transmogrified by a litter of eastern trappings due to his being enamored of Lord Byron. Leather ottoman, brass ornaments here and there, and a tiger skin thrown down on top of the Aubusson carpet.
Now it had been turned into a gloomy, gothic monstrosity. Where the deuce had he got hold of
grey
curtains that looked like cobwebs? And why didn’t he at least open them to let the sun in? The pretty little Murano vases were gone from the tabletop, along with his collection of Sevrès boxes. They had been replaced by dusty old falling apart books and a few bottles that looked as if he’d raided a mad scientist’s laboratory. It was enough to make you miss the tiger skin and brass knick-knacks.
“How are you doing, Reggie?”
he asked.
“Recovering —
slowly.”
“It might cheer you up if you let some sunlight into the place.”
But as he looked around, he had to add, “Or not.”
“The light bothers my left eye.”
This was by way of introduction to the eye patch he planned to wear when he went out.
“You ought to have Knighton take a look at it. We’ve been over to Bolton’s place. He’s been murdered. Stuck in the throat with a knife or dagger. Something pointy is what I mean. No sign of the weapon, but a big gash in his throat and blood all over the place.”
“Good God!”
Prance gasped. “No more details, if you please. I shall have nightmares as it is. Imagine, I was talking to him just yesterday. Do you know who did it?”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out. Anyhow your beating and the break-ins had nothing to do with someone stealing your next book, so you can stop worrying you’ll be plagued — You know, that thing where somebody steals your work.”
“Plagiarized.”
“That’s what I’m saying. It won’t happen.”
He outlined the situation to Prance.
Though relieved, Prance wasn’t entirely happy to have the limelight removed from him so soon. After some consideration he found an excuse to hire his bodyguard. “These spies obviously think I’m in the thick of it, working with Bolton. They’ll be after
me
next.”
“We won’t be that lucky.”
“Thank you very much,”
Prance snipped.
“Nothing personal, Reg. It’s just that if they followed you, we could follow them and catch them.”
“Preferably
before
they plunged a dagger into my throat.”
“Keep your shirt on. You won’t be going out for a week or so yet, so you’re safe. Black is going to put up at the Sheepwalk and try to find out who’s responsible.”
During the morning Prance had been wondering how to exploit the attack on him to maximum advantage. He had decided that with a black patch over his eye, he really looked rather dashing. He wouldn’t attend parties, but he would hire a bodyguard and attend to some imaginary highly important business on Bond Street during the safer daylight hours, accompanied by a bruiser. And with his throat well muffled up.
“Actually I do have a few important calls to make. My publisher, you know,”
he said vaguely.
“I suggest you ask Murray to come here,”
Coffen said.
“I wouldn’t go unattended,”
Prance said, to introduce the subject of a bodyguard.
“I daresay I could go with you, but you’d have to arrange your visits around the case. Naturally that comes first.”
“Oh I shan’t bother you, Coffen,”
he said. “I’ll arrange something.”
“Good. I’m going to go back to Bolton’s place. I could let on I want to hire rooms. P’raps I’ll be able to find out who his pals were. Pick their brains, see what he’d been up to recently. But before I go, we were wondering if you could help us with a clue. The only clue we have is mor.”
“More what?”
“More nothing. That’s all Bolton had time for —
mor. The letters m - o - r, written in his own blood.”
He drew out the paper, now well-creased and dog-eared.
Prance looked at it and shuddered. “Put it away. It’s part of a name, obviously of his assassin.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Do you know any Mors?”
“Dozens,”
Prance said with a wave of his hand. “Is Mor the first or last name?”
“We don’t know. We have no more. Just mor. So let’s have them, the ones you know. Just the tallish, darkish, handsome-ish ones, mind.”
“That certainly limits the list. Let me see, there’s Morton —
No, he barely tops five feet. Now Henry Morgan is tall —
oh but he’s far from handsome, poor fellow. Looks like a frog. And Morley Farland is a blond. The only one I can think of is John Morgrave, the
Honourable
John Morgrave, Lord Norval’s younger son. And he would hardly be working with the French. The family have been staunch royalists forever. Although being a younger son, I daresay he could use the money.”
“John Morgrave, right. Where would I find him?”
“In a charming flat on Brook Street, where he lives with his beautiful wife, Samantha. They’re very good ton, Coffen. You mustn’t bother them with this unsavoury business.”
“Whoever’s leaking our secrets must be someone with an in in high places, or how would he be filching our secrets?”
“I see your point, but don’t tell him I gave you his name,”
Prance said with a weary sigh.
“I won’t be telling him anything. I’ll just be watching him.”
He arose, said, “Thankee for the clue, Prance. I’m off. Oh, and you might try to remember some more mor’s, in case this one don’t work out.”
“Do keep me informed how things are going.”
“I will,”
he said, and let himself out.
Coffen darted across the street and informed Luten what he had learned from Prance. “The Honourable John Morgrave is the only name I could get out of Prance. Do you know him?”
“I know his older brother, Viscount Sifton. He’s Lord Norval’s heir. I find it hard to believe any of that family would be mixed up in something like this, but it must be checked out, certainly."
“The wife’s name is Samantha. Any chance Corrie would know her?”
“I believe they’re both on the committee for the Orphans’
Ball,”
he said, unhappy to hear his wife being dragged into it. But it would surely come to nothing. The Morgraves were tip of the ton.
“I thought I’d head over to Bolton’s place, sniff around, see if he was friendly with anyone there that might know what he’d been doing lately, or had any callers that fit the description of mor.”
“Do that, but be discreet. Don’t mention Morgrave’s name.”
“I’m just an old friend, looking Bolton up, have no idea he’s dead."