“I don’t blame Cooper for wanting to get rid of it,” Prance announced, whirling the hat around on his fingers and sneering at it, when Coffen took it over to show Corinne the next morning.
Reg had seen Luten calling on her as he usually did before leaving for the House. He wouldn’t have intruded on them for the world, but when he saw Coffen darting over he decided their privacy was at an end and he might as well go and see what was afoot or he wouldn’t be able to give his full attention to Lorraine’s perils at St. Justin’s Abbey.
“And you say Cooper planted this clue in Russell’s flat?” Luten asked, frowning at the absurdity of it.
“Broke a window to do it, so it must be important,” Coffen replied, sniffing the air appreciatively. No food was in evidence, not even coffee, but the tantalizing aroma of gammon and toast lingered, to set his empty stomach roiling.
“Obviously out to slander Russell’s reputation as a swell,” Reg sniffed. He turned the hat over and grimaced at the greasy band inside, then took a closer look. “Whoever wore this abomination used oil in his hair. P’raps it’s the style in Bedford.”
“Why Bedford?” Coffen demanded.
“That’s where the hat was made, or at least sold. The label says ‘The Brinks Hat Emporium, Bedford.’ Well, we knew it wasn’t a Baxter.”
“The question is,” Luten said, “whose hat is it? Cooper would hardly plant one of his own hats in Russell’s fiat to call attention to himself. It could belong to Russell. He would have been wearing a hat the night he was killed in the park. I wonder if this is the one. And if so, how did Cooper come by it, unless he was there?”
“Killed him, you mean?” Corinne asked.
“Why carry the hat home if he murdered Russell? The murderer might have left it behind. Cooper kept a pretty sharp eye on Russell. If he followed him that night, saw the murderer, noticed he left his hat behind, he might have picked it up and taken it to Russell’s flat hoping to involve the man.”
“Mickey would have noticed,” Coffen said. “He didn’t mention anyone else being there.”
“Mickey was in a hurry. He might have missed the hat. Cooper stayed behind and picked it up later. It’s just one possibility. I’ll drop Townsend a note at the Bow Street office, ask if the corpse was accompanied by a hat when it was picked up.”
“Let us know as soon as you can,” Coffen said. “If it wasn’t found on Russell’s head, my bet would be that Mickey filched it, but I don’t see how Cooper ended up with it, or why he’d take it back to Russell’s place.”
Luten frowned at the hat and said, “Mickey seems a wide-awake scamp, and not too nice as regards probity. If he saw the murder, might he not have managed to follow Cooper home to try his hand at blackmail? The hat would confirm Mickey had been there, and presumably seen the whole thing. But it still doesn’t explain why Cooper took it to Russell’s flat.”
“If that’s the way it was, the bleeder’s been lying his head off, holding out on me, and after I gave him a golden boy for his help,” Coffen said angrily. “I must say, from the way Cooper was talking, I don’t think he’d have the nerve to kill a fly.”
“And would a mere link-boy be brave enough to confront a murderer in any case?” Corinne asked.
“Ho, you don’t know him,” Coffen said. “He’d confront a herd of lions for a few bob.”
“Pride,” Prance said.
“Greed is more like it,” Coffen said.
“A pride of lions,” Prance said, “a herd of elephants or cattle.”
“And a swarm of bees, but there were no animals there other than the murderer’s mount, so what’s your point?” Coffen demanded.
“Accuracy,” Prance replied. “Never mind.”
Corinne took the hat and studied it. “I doubt this is Russell’s hat,” she said. “It’s old and not at all stylish. Russell had a reputation as a bit of a dandy. Yet if it’s
not
Russell’s hat but Cooper’s, then he’d hardly plant a clue pointing to himself, so it
must
belong to someone else.”
Coffen considered this a moment, then said, “Luten’s already said that. What’s your point?”
“Perhaps he’s trying to involve some other suitor for Miss Fenwick. You don’t think him capable of murder, Coffen, but would he be capable of a stunt like that?”
“That sounds more his style,” Coffen said. “I’d say he’s mad enough about Miss Fenwick to try anything that doesn’t demand physical nerve.”
“You might have a word with Mrs. Ballard, Corinne,” Luten suggested. “See if any other suitors had their noses out of joint. And show her the hat, see if she recognizes it.”
“This is thirsty work,” Coffen said, casting a hopeful glance at his hostess. She took the hint and rang for Black, who soon came with coffee and a plate of scones.
They continued discussing the case over coffee. Coffen filled them in on the details of his meeting with Cooper. Luten congratulated him, urged him to keep up the good work, then rose to leave.
“Are we doing anything tonight?” Reg asked, rising with Luten to return to his labors.
“Lady Dunn has invited Luten and me to a small rout party she’s having,” Corinne replied. “Luten is trying to twist Grafton’s arm to vote for some plot he’s hatching in the House, and says we must go.”
“We’ll just drop in for an hour,” Luten said.
Reginald decided to remain behind when Luten left. He didn’t like to ask in front of him if Byron had been invited to this little rout party, but as soon the front door closed, he said in an offhand manner, “Who else is attending this soiree?”
“I don’t know, Reg,” she said. “Luten thinks the Melbournes will be there. She might have invited Byron.”
“That’s what he’s trying to find out,” Coffen said. “Cheer up, Reg. There might be an invite for you in the mail.”
“Me? I scarcely know the lady, and wasn’t particularly taken with her,” Reg said with a dismissing bat of his hand.
“You’ve met her then?” Coffen said.
“At that do at Melbourne’s place.” To change the subject, he said, “Coffen is waiting for you to quiz Mrs. Ballard about the hat, Corinne.”
Coffen said. “I’m waiting to ask her if she happened to have a plaster about the house as well. I cut my hand last night, and we don’t have any at home.”
Reg rolled his eyes. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me, I wonder.”
“Might have happened to anyone,” Coffen pointed out. “Broken glass, dark — a recipe for cutting yourself.”
“I was referring to the lack of basic supplies at your house, actually. What are you doing tonight, Coffen?”
“Depends on what we find out about the hat, whether Russell had one when he was found. If he didn’t, I’ll find out if young Mickey was holding out on me and give him a piece of my mind. I want to find out if any of the other whisters were sweet on Miss Fenwick as well, and hear what Mrs. Ballard has to say. I’ll be working on different angles. Have you written to Keswick yet?”
“Of course I have,” Prance replied, offended. “Why don’t you go have a word with Mrs. Ballard now, Corinne? Ask her about other jealous men in her whist club, and ask what she knows about a Miss Barker. I got the notion from Fenwick that she had her hopes pinned to Russell before Fenwick snatched him up.”
“Now that’s interesting,” Coffen said. “Cooper let that name slip as well, as one of the ladies hot after Russell. Get her address, Corrie.”
“I’ll have Black call Mrs. Ballard,” Corinne said, and rang for him.
“How are you coming along with that picture of Russell, Reg?” Coffen asked.
“I’ve finished it and returned the original to Miss Fenwick. I was up till two this morning working at it. It turned out rather well, I think.”
“You might have told us,” Coffen scolded. “Let’s see it.”
“I’ll bring it this evening. I didn’t think to bring it with me.”
Coffen just shook his head at such an oversight. When Black entered, he took one look at Coffen’s cut hand, spoke in dire terms of infection, gangrene and amputation if it weren’t properly looked after, and ushered him to the kitchen to have it washed and properly bandaged. Corinne, knowing Mrs. Ballard’s dislike of an audience, spoke to her while he was gone.
“I’ve never seen the hat,” Mrs. Ballard said firmly. “I can’t believe it belonged to Russell. He was a natty dresser.” She stated firmly that the other gentlemen in the group with the exception of Cooper were all clerics, mostly retired, and not the sort to be at all interested in Miss Fenwick. And the hat was not Cooper’s either. She was sure of that. When asked about Miss Barker, she waffled.
“Miss Barker never actually
said
anything about being fond of Russell, although she certainly laughed louder than anyone else at any of his little jokes. I believe she did once have tea with him, and wouldn’t have said no if he’d asked her out of an evening. It’s true she took to wearing her pearl necklace and curling her hair after he joined our group, but I personally don’t believe she began rouging her cheeks, although they
did
seem a little pinker after he joined. She may very well have had some other reason for calling Miss Fenwick a bit forward. I wouldn’t like to speak ill of the lady.”
“I see,” said Corinne, who saw very well that Miss Barker had been trotting after Russell as fast as her legs would carry her, and was jealous as a green cow of the interloper. She didn’t think, however, that she would have taken her revenge against Russell. Surely it would have been Miss Fenwick who had been shot. But really she couldn’t even imagine any of Mrs. Ballard’s crones sinking to murder.
When Coffen returned with a neat bandage on his hand, she told him the results of her conversation with Mrs. Ballard.
“Definitely not Russell’s hat, then. And Mrs. Ballard doesn’t think it was Cooper’s and none of the other fellows than Cooper was after Fenwick. Well, it looks like we’ve come across our first red herring. But Cooper
must
have put the hat there for a reason, and I’m going to see if I can find out why. You haven’t heard back from Luten?”
“Not yet.”
Black, listening at the door as usual, stepped into the room and handed her ladyship a note, folded, not sealed. “It’ll be from himself,” he informed her, knowing full well not only who it was from, but that a curled beaver had accompanied Russell’s corpse to the morgue. She read it and handed it to Coffen.
“Right,” he said, after glancing at it and handing it to Reg. “Do you mind if I take the hat with me? I’ll take care not to lose it.”
“We would be charmed to be rid of it,” Prance assured him. “I trust you’re not harboring any notion of adding it to your own sparse wardrobe.”
“It don’t fit,” Coffen said. “I already tried. It’s too big.”
“Thank goodness for small mercies, and small heads.”
“You mean big heads. I said it’s too big for me.”
“Which means your head is small.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s as big as yours.”
They left, squabbling over this irrelevancy.
Until Sir Reginald learned whether Byron had been invited to Lady Dunn’s rout, he was only annoyed that the morning’s post brought him no card. His pique wouldn’t reach a climax unless Byron was attending. He didn’t really want to attend the do as he had not been particularly impressed by the dame. Lord Grafton was a rich earl and a force in the Cabinet to be sure but he was an older man, not at all interested in the arts, or even fashionable. Still, being left out bothered him so that he could not devote his best effort to rescuing Lady Lorraine from the villainous faux Lord Malvain, usurper of St. Justin’s Abbey, who was menacing her. He was in reality the evil nephew of Lord Malvain, whose name and title he had usurped after murdering his uncle in France.
Until Corinne and Luten decided when and where their much-delayed wedding was to take place, he could not amuse himself by arranging that do.
Naturally Ireland demanded a much different gown and scenario than London, or Southcote Abbey, Luten’s estate near Sherwood Forest, which had also been mentioned. Luten was becoming so impatient he wouldn’t put it a pace past him to decide on an elopement to Gretna Green to be married over the anvil like a pair of young runaways. Wouldn’t that shock London! He almost wished they would do it.
He decided to call on Coffen to see what he planned to do with that abominable hat he had taken home. February was really an impossible month, when one came down to it. One was utterly bored with winter, which, like a poor relation, hung about long after one’s charitable impulse had expired. The shortest month of the year, yet seemingly the longest. And still the wretched March winds to look forward to before any hope of a warm breeze or flowers or shedding one’s winter wardrobe.
Coffen would very likely be chasing after the link-boy called Mickey, and Green Park in February held no charms for Reg. What could one do on such a day but peruse the shops and see the latest gewgaws? He’d send for his carriage and drive to Bond Street. Some little toy — a new vase or a little statue, or perhaps a minor jeweled stud for his cravat might cheer him up. Something different — an onyx stud, for instance, would look stunning against a snow-white cravat for mourning occasions, or a large pearl in a black stock for funerals. February was bound to kill off someone he knew. He sent for his carriage. When it arrived Coffen was just coming out of his house, carrying the abominable hat.
Reg called him over to his carriage. “Where are you off to, and why are you on foot? Don’t tell me you’re afraid to send a footman for your carriage.”
“Course not. It happens Fitz ain’t up to it this morning.”
“Been at your wine again, no doubt.”
Coffen didn’t bother to deny it. “I suppose you’re chasing after Byron,” he said in retaliation.
“Certainly not!”
“Good, then if you were just planning to cruise Bond Street, you can give me a lift.”
“Where are you going?”
“To see Miss Barker.”
“Where does she live?”
“On Grosvenor Square, with some cousin or aunt.”
“Oh very well. Hop in.” Lady Dunn lived on Grosvenor Square. Perhaps he would run into her ... A mention that he hoped to see her at some ton do this evening — Lady Middleton’s musical soiree was this evening — and she might invite him to her do. He needn’t go if Byron wasn’t. Pity he was with Coffen. The fellow looked as if he’d hopped out of the ragbag. The hat on his head was hardly better than the one he was carrying. Reg had no intention of wasting a half hour calling on a Miss Barker, although the house, when Coffen pointed it out, was really rather impressive. A fine brick house with pillars and a pedimented doorway, right next door to Lord Falkner’s. Hardly the residence one imagined for Mrs. Ballard’s friend. Miss Barker might be worth knowing after all.