“Mind-reader then, are you?” Black said.
Cooper detected the note of menace in his voice and remained standing, glancing uneasily from one to the other. Coffen took up a chair while Black remained at the door, scowling, with his hand in his pocket clutching his gun.
“What has it got to do with you, Mr. Prance?” Cooper asked.
“Never you mind that,” Black said. “Where were you earlier this evening, Mr. Cooper?”
“Right here. Why do you ask?” He stared at Coffen’s worried face and cried, “Good God! Don’t tell me —
Who?
Has there been another murder? Not Miss Fenwick!” He looked ready to burst into tears.
“Not Miss Fenwick,” Coffen said, and Cooper wilted into his chair in obvious relief. When he recovered, he asked, “But who, then? “Why are you asking
me
these questions?”
“It’s Sykes.”
“Who the deuce is Sykes?”
“You might know him by the name of Stokes, or Morton.”
After a frowning pause, Cooper said, “I don’t know any of those names.”
Watching him, Coffen sensed that he was telling the truth. “He’s Russell’s limping friend. He was murdered tonight. I believe you knew him.”
“Murdered!” Cooper gasped. When he recovered, he said, “I only knew the man by sight. Oh I had a few words with him one evening he was loitering about, waiting for Russell, but I didn’t even know his name. I used to see him and Russell together. I followed Russell a few times — I knew he was up to no good — and saw him with the fellow you call Sykes. They were close as inkle-weavers, lived in the same block of flats. I’d say Russell killed him, if he wasn’t already dead. But it has nothing to do with
me.”
“That’s as may be,” Black said. “So you say you were here alone in your apartment all evening.”
“I didn’t say I was alone,” Cooper shot back. “It happens I took dinner with Reverend Barnes after our card game. I invited him back here for a bite. We were having an interesting discussion about the Bible. He just left ten minutes ago.”
“Where could we find this Barnes?” Black asked, his tone suggesting he didn’t believe a word of it.
“He’s just moved in with his sister. I’m not sure exactly where he lives now, but it’s close by for he said he’d walk home.”
“Mrs. Ballard will know,” Coffen informed Black. Then he said to Cooper, “I expect you’ll be hearing from Bow Street. If you didn’t kill Sykes, you’ve nothing to worry about. By the way, what’s your first name, Cooper?”
“Peter Paul, after my father. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” Coffen said, frowning at that initial P. Then he tossed his head toward Black, indicating they should leave. They walked along through the damp fog until they caught a hackney. “There’s a bit of a poser then,” Coffen said, as they were driven along to Berkeley Square. “One suspect dead, the other as innocent as a lamb, despite being a P. Dash it, Black, there’s nobody left that could’ve done it.”
“Devil a bit of it,” Black said firmly. “A scoundrel like Limpy would have legions of enemies. Legions. There’s somebody out there had it in for him, Mr. Pattle, laughing up his sleeve, thinking he got away with it.”
“You mean it might have nothing to do with Russell’s murder?”
“I didn’t say that. We shall see what we shall see, Mr. Pattle. I’ll continue my inquiries. I felt myself Cooper hadn’t the gumption to knife anyone.”
“Me too,” Coffen said.
“Er, did I hear Cooper call you Mr. Prance?”
“You did, and did I see you stuff Limpy’s money into your pocket?”
“Wouldn’t have done Limpy no good. He couldn’t spend it. We’ll do like the monkeys — I hear no evil, you see no evil, and we neither of us speak no evil,” Black said, and gave a hearty chuckle.
Black could see no great glory for himself in standing by while Mr. Pattle told Lady deCoventry of their night’s work. He liked to stand alone in his triumph before her. It was still early, he might yet be able to perform some miracle to astound her before the night was over. “You go on ahead, Mr. Pattle,” he said, when Coffen managed to find a hackney. “I’ll find my own drive. There’s a few fellows I’d like a word with.”
“Suit yourself, Black. You’ll let me know if you find out anything. I’m going to just check up on Barnes' address with Mrs. Ballard and have a word with him. I think myself Cooper’s telling the truth, but that Peter Paul business makes me wonder. There’s no other P’s in the case that we know of.”
“Very true. He might’ve been expecting we’d call on him if he did the murder. The Bible and all looked suspiciously innocent, almost a stage set.”
“Just what I thought myself. As for a motive, as you said before, Limpy might have figured out Cooper did in Russell.”
“Aye, and even if he had his bite of supper with Barnes, he might’ve done the job after Barnes left. He said he’d just left ten minutes before, but say it was fifteen or twenty minutes, he could have done it. He hadn’t far to go. The blood was fresh, if you noticed.”
“I did. I noticed it in particular,” Coffen agreed, with a sharp memory of the sight. “I’ve just had a thought. You don’t happen to know Miss Fenwick’s first name? She wouldn’t be a P?”
“The old tabby, Ballard, says her name’s Annabelle. Seems Russell called her Belle.”
“No P there, then.”
“Afraid not.” Black disappeared into the fog, off on his own mysterious errand. Coffen continued on to Berkeley Square and called on Corinne. The footman, Hawken, had the honor of attending to the door during Black’s absence and admitted him. He could hear an argument going forth in the drawing room. If Black had been there, he could and would have informed Coffen what it was about. A rare gem, Black, despite his light fingers. He tried his luck with Hawken.
“A spot of trouble in there?” he said, lifting an eyebrow in hope of learning the details.
“So it seems, Sir,” Hawken said with a face like ice, and took his hat. “If you would care to wait...”
“I won’t disturb them. I’d like a word with Mrs. Ballard. Is she downstairs?”
“In the breakfast room, I believe. Shall I — “
“Never mind, I know the way.”
Like Cooper, she was bent over her Bible. As this was exactly as he expected to find her, no thought of the theatre arose. “Sorry to disturb you,” he said. “Just a simple question. Could you tell me where Reverend Barnes lives?”
“Certainly. Just last month he moved in with his recently-widowed sister in that big brick block of flats on the corner of Green Street and Dunraven.”
“Ah, not far from Cooper’s place.”
“Do you mind telling me why you want to know? Surely you don’t suspect
him."
“It’s to do with alibis, Mrs. Ballard. Afraid there’s been another murder.”
Mrs. Ballard gasped and grabbed her heart. “You don’t mean it! Who was it this time?”
“Russell’s limping friend. Using the name Sykes now, it seems. Cooper said he took his meat with Barnes this evening.”
“That’s true,” she said at once. “I heard Cooper invite him. How did you find out? What happened?”
“I called on Sykes and found him dead, stabbed through the heart.” Mrs. Ballard winced but said nothing. Her own heart was beating erratically. It would be the death of her, living with a lady who dabbled in murder. “I want to check out times and see if Cooper could have done it.”
She repeated the address with no hesitation or reluctance. When she tried to ask him more questions, he stood up and said, “I’m in a bit of a rush, actually. I’d like to be back before Bow Street gets here.”
“Oh dear, Bow Street is coming?”
“Murder, you have to let them in on it. Any idea what Luten and Corinne are arguing about?”
“Are they arguing?” she asked, frowning. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea. They seemed quite happy when I left them. Something to do with Lord Byron, do you think?”
“Has he been sniffing around?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Hmph. I wonder if Prance has been up to his tricks. Thankee for the information, Mrs. Ballard,” he said, and hurried off.
Luten, wearing a worried scowl, was just stomping out of the drawing room when Coffen reached the front hall. “Any news?” he asked.
“Limpy’s been killed. What’s up with you two? Is the wedding off again?”
“No. Tell me about the latest murder. I assume it was murder?”
“Afraid so,” he said, and told Luten the sorry tale.
Luten frowned and massaged his chin and said, “We’ve
got
to get to the bottom of this thing.”
“I sent word to Bow Street. I expect Townsend will be around before long. You’ll be here?”
“Certainly.” Luten welcomed any help they could get, and was not sorry to have an excuse to return and make it up with his fiancée as well. “I’ll have my butler keep an eye out for him. I’ll be back.”
Coffen nodded and went into the drawing room. He was relieved to see Corinne was not crying. She wasn’t much for bawling, but when she and Luten went at it, she sometimes shed a tear. At the moment she looked more angry that sorry.
“Coffen, any news?” she asked, and he told her the same tale he’d just told Luten.
“It’s horrid,” she said. “Murder is never simple, is it? One always seems to lead to another. And you know these things often come in threes.”
“Are you having one of your feelings?” he asked. Corinne was Irish, and had some reputation of having second sight.
“No, I’m too angry. There is nothing wrong with Lady Dunn. I like her. I don’t have many female friends, and those I do have are really just the wives of Luten’s colleagues, older ladies who are only interested in politics and gossip. All we did was go shopping, and to that little party — that was
his
idea. He is the one who introduced us.”
“What’s he got against her?”
“I hardly know. Apparently someone at the House has been whispering that she’s not quite the thing. A shady past, you know. Debts, I believe, are at the bottom of it. Good gracious, she’s marrying Grafton. He can handle any little debts she may have. They think — feel — that she’s leading Grafton a merry dance, just marrying him for his money. It seems she has other male friends, but what is really at the bottom of it is that she was at the art exhibit at Somerset House with Byron. Countess deLieven, that nosy old Parker, saw them and of course had to talk to them to see if she could find some juicy gossip. It seems
she,
Lady Dunn, invited
him
to tea. Rather foolish of her, but everyone courts him. If it had been anyone but Byron, Luten wouldn’t have cared a groat. He’s just afraid that I’ll be meeting up with Byron. That’s what this is all about.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Have a word with Dunn. Slip her the clue to keep away from Byron.”
“He doesn’t want me to see her again.”
“Ah.” Coffen nodded. He decided to keep his oar out of this one. “You’ll work it out. Just don’t let Prance in on it. I have a little job to do before Bow Street gets here, but I’ll be back. So will Luten. I told him they’re coming.”
She sniffed to conceal her relief at the news. She did find Lady Dunn a little fast, actually, and pushing their friendship forward at an unseemly pace. She didn’t like the reckless way she drove her tilbury. In fact, it was downright dangerous. She didn’t like the sort of intimate apparel she bought either. It was almost what one imagined a mistress wore. And there had been that rather sly little comment about buying the gowns after they were married, so the husbands would have to pay for them. She hadn’t mentioned any of that to Luten, however. It was Byron that was bothering him. If she let him choose her friends before they were married, how would he behave after? Perhaps she would see less of Mavis, but she wouldn’t drop her just because Luten said so.
Coffen left and went in search of a hackney. He found one at the corner of Mount Street and paid his call on Reverend Barnes, a portly, white-haired septuagenarian in a black suit shiny with wear, who listened to Coffen’s tale of murder with some interest.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Ballard was asking us about the man with a limp. Can’t say I ever noticed the fellow myself. Murdered, eh? Shocking. I don’t know what London is coming to.”
He confirmed that he had dined with Cooper, as his sister was dining with friends that evening. But he hadn’t taken any special note of the time he left Cooper’s flat. Neither did Coffen have any clear idea of what hour he had visited Cooper himself, so nothing was solved. Cooper could have had time to do the deed. Barnes seemed a lonely soul, eager to continue the conversation.
“I have some fear that Cooper is not as upright a Christian as one could wish,” he said, with a frown drawing his face into a map of wrinkles.
Coffen’s ears perked up at this hint. “Bit of a bad apple, is he?”
“I would hesitate to say that,” Barnes replied, “but I fear he is not a solid man on the Trinity. As to the miracle of the loaves and fishes, he is an outright unbeliever! Oh he knows his Bible, I give him that, but he harbors unorthodox views on certain matters of faith.”
“Is that so?” Coffen had little familiarity with the Bible, but felt that any man who actually read and discussed it couldn’t be very bad.
“That is not to say I believe for a minute that he had anything to do with the murder of this unfortunate limping man.” Before Barnes could go into more details, Coffen rose and took his leave, not much wiser than when he had arrived.
He had kept the hackney waiting and returned to Berkeley Square just as Prance came out of his house, dressed up for the evening. His carriage was at his front door.
“What’s afoot?” Prance demanded. “I just saw Townsend go into Corinne’s house. Has something happened?”
“Another murder.”
“Who?”
“Limpy. Come along and hear all about it.”
“I was just on my way to a concert at Lady Hurst’s house, that wonderful new Italian violinist that everyone’s talking about.”
“You hate violin players,” Coffen reminded him.
“Most of them, but everyone’s talking about Leonardo. One doesn’t like to be out of it.”
“You’ll be out of this case if you don’t come along.”
Oh dear! Out of this case first, then out of the Berkeley Brigade. Had they been talking about him behind his back, discussing his lack of interest in the case — and after he’d gone dashing off to Bedford, to say nothing of doing Russell’s portrait? Still, no denying Coffen had been running himself ragged. He must redeem himself.