“This is a block of flats, Coffen,” she said. “It’s not likely he owned the whole building. He probably rented a flat here.”
They alit and hastened, holding on to their hats, through the chilly morn to the doorway, where a list of residents told them Mr. James Russell lived on the ground floor at number four. If there were four flats to each story, the flats could not be large. The outer door was unlocked. They entered an undecorated but clean, paneled lobby with a tiled floor. An arrow led them down a narrow hallway to the right. No reek of humanity, cabbage or other unpleasant odor greeted them, but rather the lingering scent of beeswax and turpentine. No crying children or arguing adults broke the silence. The place was kept decently clean and polished and appeared to be a civilized if not elegant sort of establishment.
A cardboard label mounted in a brass frame on the door announced in flowing script the residence of James Russell. “We’ll have to find the housekeeper,” Coffen said, his voice echoing eerily in the empty hallway. “Bribe her to let us in.” They hardly expected the door to be unlocked, but tried it anyway. To their surprise, the knob turned. They exchanged a startled look and went in.
The door opened directly into the drawing room. Like the outer hall, it was plain but respectable with decent furnishings and a few ornaments, nothing to indicate the taste or interests of the tenant. Unlike the outer hall, it was far from neat. Newspapers littered tabletops. Soiled shirts and cravats hung over the backs of chairs and used glasses littered all surfaces, even the floor, making Coffen feel quite at home.
“It seems the wealthy Mr. Russell didn’t have a valet, or even a maid,” Corinne said, wrinkling her nose in dismay as she kicked away a journal. “He must have tidied the place up before having the whist crowd here.”
A woman with a duster in her hand came out from a doorway leading to the bedroom and cast a hostile glance at them.
“Ah, there you are. Just looking for you,” Coffen said to the gaunt, sharp-eyed woman in a dust cap and apron.
A pair of cabbage green eyes subjected them to a close scrutiny. After examining Coffen’s rumpled coat and dusty boots, she said, “The flat won’t be let till it’s been cleared out. I’m in charge, Jessie Jones. If you want to leave your name, I’ll let you know.”
“Thankee kindly,” he said, “but I’m not looking for a flat. I’m here to ask about Mr. Russell.”
She didn’t question it. “I told his brother as I’ll tell you, I don’t know nothing about who killed him.”
Coffen’s ears perked up at this. Miss Fenwick said he had no family. He phrased his question to see what he could learn. “Ah, he was here, was he? I wonder which brother that was. What did the fellow look like?”
Jessie turned a sharp eye on Corinne. She knew Russell had been murdered, and some folks were taking an interest. She was a fool to have opened her budget to that other fellow without seeing the color of his money. This fancy lady, wrapped in fur, seemed the likelier one to come up with the ready for information. “Just a man, nothing special I can tell you,” with a slyly encouraging smile.
Coffen put his hand in his pocket and said, “P’raps we could jog your memory.” Her eyes gleamed to see the coin was gold, not just silver.
She snatched it and dropped it down the front of her dress, then said, “What is it you want to know, Mister?”
“Anything you can tell us. When was the brother here? What did he look like? What did he want?”
“Came last night, didn’t he? A middling sort of man, dark hair, dressed like a gent but not out of the top drawer. He didn’t come in no carriage — or a hired hackney for that matter. Nossir, he come on shank’s mare. Asked questions, went through Russell’s papers but I didn’t let him take nothing away with him. The fellow didn’t have no affeydavey from a lawyer giving him the right. I never let him out of my sight. I’m responsible to Mr. Augustine for the place. He owns it.”
Coffen noticed the confirmation that Russell was just hiring rooms here. “What kind of questions did the man ask?” he said.
“Like whether he had much company, any women, any bill collectors, any noisy parties. Like that. A regular nosy Parker.”
“And did he? Russell, I mean, have bill collectors or women here?”
“What’s to collect on? He didn’t own nothing but the clothes on his back. The place is let furnished, isn’t it? He had a bunch of old tabbies and churchmen here once or twice. Other than that, just the one woman caller came, and she only come the once. Not a lightskirt either, nossir. She was a boneyfied lady, even if she come in a hired hack and dressed plain as a vicar’s wife. You should’ve heard how she talked to me. Pretty sharp and bossy she was. A real lady.”
“When was this?” Corinne asked.
“A week or so ago. They had words. I was dusting the hall and couldn’t help hearing. When she come out, that’s when she told me what for, listening at keyholes, which I never.”
“Any idea what the argument was about?” Coffen asked, ignoring this claim to deafness.
“I couldn’t hear much, but money was mentioned. ‘Not a penny more’, she said, in a pretty loud voice. Mad as a wet hen.”
Coffen listened, nodding. “That’s dandy.”
Corinne, with a fleeting memory of the dry eyes behind Miss Fenwick’s handkerchief, asked, “What did the woman look like?”
“All I can tell you is she was a lady, for she wore a veil over her face like a mourner. It covered her hair as well. A good figure, I’ll give her that.” She studied Corinne with interest, then added, “About your own size, Madam.”
Not Miss Fenwick, then. She had a fulsome figure.
Coffen nodded, then asked, “Mind if we just have a bit of a root around?”
“Help yourself, Mister, but I gotta stay here to see nothing leaves the room. I’m responsible. You never know, do you? Someone may turn up demanding his belongings. Not that there’s much here, but a decent jacket in the other room and some shirts and small clothes.”
Corinne knew her job and set about distracting the woman while Coffen rooted. She invented a country nephew who had just come to town and was looking for a flat. She asked a dozen questions about price, service, the character of the other tenants, and so on. Jessie Jones assured her the flats were all let to what she called “gents, mostly older fellows. Retired officers and clerks, but if the country cousin didn’t mind peace and quiet, he’d like it all right. She would do light cleaning for a modest price.
While they talked, Coffen slipped quietly into the bedroom. In less than ten minutes he came out and gave Corinne a nod. She thanked the housekeeper and they left.
“Did you find out anything?” she asked, as they hurried through the windy street to the carriage.
“Plenty! There wasn’t much there I can tell you.”
“Then how did you discover anything?”
“By what wasn’t there,” he said with satisfaction. “For all his talk of freeing up money to buy that house on Grosvenor Square, the fellow didn’t have a sou to his name. No bankbook, no papers about investments, no will, nothing but bills and IOU’s. Plus he didn’t even own that carriage Miss Fenwick spoke of. He hired the rig and nags from Newman’s stable. He didn’t have more than one decent jacket to his name, for that matter. Well, plus the one he was wearing makes two.”
He pulled a wad of crumpled papers from his pocket. “I brought these along to look over later. It’s the bills and IOU’s. Whoever he was, he didn’t keep any mementos around. No pictures, no little sentimental bits and pieces like a favorite book from school or a lucky penny or a playbill or a pressed flower from an actress he was sweet on.”
“I wonder who the woman — lady — visitor was,” Corinne said.
“Time for fork work. We’ll think better after lunch,” he replied, and they were driven home to Berkeley Square.
Luten did not join his fiancée for lunch, but he dropped by later in the afternoon while Coffen was still there, rooting through the bits of paper he’d stuffed in his pocket at Russell’s flat. Sir Reginald had successfully got Lady Lorraine through her ordeal in the hallway at St. Justin’s Abbey and was ready for company. When he saw Luten cross the street to Corinne’s house, he decided to honor them with his presence.
Before leaving he always checked out his appearance in the ormolu mirror conveniently placed near his front door for the purpose. He found no fault in the coy brown curl he had trained to tumble over his forehead like Byron’s. The thin face often compared to a greyhound found no dissatisfaction with its owner. As to the cravat and jacket covering his slender body — it seemed a shame to cover such works of art with a greatcoat only for a trip across the street.
His valet had come up with a stunning new arrangement of the cravat. They were still deciding on a name. Prance rather fancied the Vortex in honor of the way the linen formed diminishing circles. Absolute sleight of hand, the way Villier had achieved it. His valet held fast to the notion of naming it the Villier, after himself, and had taken to pouting, which meant he would soon be in the boughs and performing minor acts of sabotage on his master’s wardrobe if his wish were not granted. As Villier pointed out, all his other articles of clothing were named after their creators. His jacket was named after the premier tailor of London, Weston, his hat was a Baxter and his boots were Hobys.
Prance sighed and smoothed the Weston over his narrow chest. He decided to throw caution to the wind and ran across the street with only a scarf--a rich mulberry merino to contrast with Weston’s blue superfine--wound around his neck, the two ends flapping jauntily over his shoulders like woolen wings. Unfortunately none of his neighbors were out to admire him but Black, Corinne’s butler, knew some compliment was expected of him and gently chided the caller for his daring, wearing only that lovely scarf in the dead of winter.
“You’ll catch your death, out without a coat in this weather, Sir Reginald,” Black scolded. “You young bucks — I wonder you survive at all.”
Prance was not fooled by the sympathetic smile on the old phony’s face, but as a seasoned theatre-goer, he appreciated the effort. Black, a felon of some sort before he was reclaimed by Corinne’s late husband, had become an integral part of her household, even weaseling his way into their various murder cases when he could. And he had certainly been a great help at Newstead Abbey.
As far as Black was concerned, his major duties were listening at keyholes and monitoring the comings and goings of the Berkeley Brigade, to keep her ladyship informed. It was no secret to Prance that the butler was foolishly in love with his mistress, but as Black knew enough to keep his passion on a short leash, he was tolerated.
“They’re in the salon,” Black said, letting Sir Reginald show himself in.
Prance stood a moment at the doorway, admiring the lovely little drawing room he had contrived for Corinne, before surveying the little group gathered around the leaping flames of the grate. Corinne and Luten made a stunning couple, both dark-haired and handsome. Corinne’s ivory skin and black hair led the unimaginative to compare her to a cameo. The comparison didn’t begin to do her justice. It was those green eyes and the lively Irish charm that were the making of her. And of course the tall, elegant figure did marvelous things to a gown, though she usually marred the effect by too much ornamentation. A severe style would show her off to better advantage.
Most of all he admired her voice, that he often compared to a cello played in a velvet tunnel, once Brummell had come up with the felicitous phrase.
She glanced up and smiled. “Come in, Reg. We have a new case and you are just the man to help us.”
He had been hoping someone would notice the Vortex and even more had been looking forward to talking about his novel, but when she appealed to him in this manner, he was putty in her hands.
Coffen snorted. “He won’t care for it. No princes or kings. Not even a lord or lady.”
Prance ignored this truth, that made him appear a climber, which he certainly was not. He just happened to prefer a civilized lack and gentlemen murderers. He wafted into the room. “Tell me all,” he said, and lifting his coattails, he perched on the arm of her chair.
Luten outlined the case, with frequent interruptions and additions from Coffen. In truth, Prance found the whole thing amazingly dull. An aging spinster from Manchester and a gazetted fortune hunter from God alone knew where. There seemed very little possibility of drawing his friend and idol, Lord Byron, into it either. As it was Mrs. Ballard who had sought their help, however, they obviously meant to have a go.
“Pray, how did you imagine
I
could be of help in this?” he asked, biting his tongue on the words “tawdry affair” that leapt to mind.
“You wasn’t listening,” Coffen said. “Art, music, plays — that’s your line of goods. You ever hear of this Russell fellow? James Russell.”
“The name rings no bells, sorry.”
“You could ask your chums,” Coffen pointed out.
“I shall mention it, certainly. What did he do for a living? Was he connected with a theater or museum or gallery? That might help.”
Coffen said, “He didn’t work. Miss Fenwick was put out when we asked. Said he was a gentleman.”
“And living in an unkempt flat. No visible means of support, in other words,” Prance sniffed. “What does he look like?”
Strangely, this hadn’t occurred to them. Prance shook his head at such a blatant omission.
“Call Mrs. Ballard. She’ll know,” Luten suggested.
“I’ll go ask her,” Corinne said. She well knew how Mrs. Ballard disliked to have to sit with her friends. She was soon back with the description. “Tall, dark and handsome,” she reported. “No moles or scars, no special oddities of dress. In his mid-forties.”
“That could be anyone,” Prance said with a shrug. “Well, any one of hundreds, or thousands. What does the word ‘handsome’ mean to a spinster from Manchester? A picture would help.”
“It seems Miss Fenwick has one,” Corinne said. “He gave her an ivory miniature for her birthday. I daresay she won’t want to part with it. She treasures her little tokens from him, but at least we could see it.”