To Mourn a Murder (18 page)

Luten just shook his head. "It must be hard, being irresistible."

"Yes, irresistible to every scrambling mama who wants a tinsel title for her daughter, and every scribbler who wants me to get his poems published for him, and every tradesman who wants his bills paid. And occasionally to a pretty heiress. Miss Winchley is an heiress, I believe you mentioned?"

"A minor one, and did I mention, on the edge of an engagement to Egremont?"

"All right! You don't have to challenge me to a duel. I'm thinking of falling in love with a lady one of these days, you know, and must exercize my tawdry wiles, but I shall spare your Miss Winchley the bother."

"You can practise your wiles on Prance."

Byron blinked twice. "He's a handsome fellow to be sure, but I rather thought a lady would do better for marriage, considering the necessity of a son and heir."

"Break it to Prance gently. I omitted one little detail until you agreed to help us, and a gentleman, of course, never welshes on his word. Prance is to substitute for Miss Winchley. You'll have to pick her up, in case the Bee is watching. Prance will be waiting in the carriage and change dominoes with her."

Byron stared at him. "Rather an important little detail, milord! And there's another detail. If the Bee follows us and sees three people getting out of the carriage when only two got in — "

"He won't see it. Miss Winchley will stay in the carriage when you and Prance get out. We'll meet her on a side street and she can come in with my party, wearing a blue domino."

"So you have the pleasure of accompanying
two
pretty ladies, while I get Prance. Could we not hire an actress to take Miss Winchley's place?"

"It will do you good to do without a woman for one night. We'd rather keep it
entre nous.
Prance, believe it or not, can handle himself in a brawl, if it should come to that. It was he who saved my life the night I got this." He tapped his ankle with the tip of his cane.

"Yes, he's told me that story three or four times. Very well, you've convinced me. But let it be on your own head if you hear we two have shackled over the anvil at Gretna Green."

"Optimist!" Luten scoffed. "Prance's bride will be the victim of the grandest, gaudiest ceremony since the coronation of Louis, the Sun King."

"I rather saw Prance as the bride," Byron replied, feigning offence.

Luten rolled his eyes and laughed. He was enjoying Byron's company. It was unusual for him to indulge in this sort of light banter. Perhaps it wouldn't be so dreadful after all if Byron became one of the lights of the Whig party. "I'll call on you tomorrow to settle the final arrangements," he said, rising. "When am I likely to catch you at home? Let us set an hour."

"Any time between ten and noon."

"Let's make it twelve. And now I shall leave you to your siesta."

"I fear Luten hath murdered sleep. And I thank you for it. A pity to sleep one's life away when he could be making himself useful as a target for some cut-throat villain."

"Just dedicate your opus to me when you make a poem of it."

"Prance would never speak to me again. Done! But I'm joking, of course. I truly enjoy his company. One meets so few Originals these days."

"And here comes one of them now," Luten said, as Lord Petersham came sidling through the door.

"Oh, is it after six already? How time flies."

Lord Petersham was a virtual grab bag of eccentricities. This dandy cultivated a charming lisp, never arose before six p.m., never wore any colour but brown, in deference to a widow of that name, whom he once professed himself to be in love. He collected various sorts of tea, snuff and especially snuffboxes. He had one for every day of the year. He was holding one in his hand now, flicking the lid open with his thumb as he looked around for someone to show it to.

Luten turned to avoid Petersham's hopeful gaze. "I'll leave and let you hide behind your journal, before Petersham lisps us a lecture on his latest acquisition."

As he left, Byron pulled the journal in front of his face with a snap.

Prance worried about his health but he would have welcomed a nice bout of flu to save him from the cold and damp of Brighton in autumn. And to go alone, stopping at second-rate inns to inquire into reservations made seven year ago! He would have preferred to be in bed with a wrenched knee like Coffen, being waited on hand and foot. It would have given him an unexceptionable excuse to limp too, as he recovered. In his mind's eye he saw himself and Byron limping along, talking about their projected trip abroad while the world looked on in jealous sympathy.

He had to give himself a good dressing down for such selfishness. This was his chance to do something really splendidly clever for the Berkeley Brigade, and help some ladies in distress while about it. It would get him away from that curst feline, Petruchio, too. Of course it wasn't the cat's fault that its white fur was such a nuisance, but couldn't the beast use the scratching board he had installed, and leave his sofa alone? Fortunately André, his chef, had taken a liking to the animal and kept it in the kitchen a good deal of the time. He must watch for cat hairs in his food.

Prance had a conference with his valet and his chef about clothing and refreshments respectively for the trip before setting out. Villier was to accompany him. He remembered to bring along Prance's black satin sleep mask in case "his lordship" wished to rest during the trip. With absolute sleight of hand, Villier had also created a muffler seven feet long from a fine gold woolen sofa throw. Not the brassy gold of a buttercup, but the muted gold of a jonquil. The material, the colour, the length—all conspired to raise it from simple mufflerdom to the realm of fashion. It wrapped twice around Prance's neck and still had length to ride boldly over his shoulder and hang down a stylish length behind. Really it looked extremely dégagé. He was bound to set a new style with it this winter.

André had prepared thermoses of hot coffee and cocoa to keep the travelers warm during the trip. The fur carriage blankets (sheered beaver, not sheepskin) were installed. Bricks were heated and wrapped in wool for their feet. By ten o'clock there was nothing more to detain them, but to delay the inevitable Prance decided to have a word with Coffen before going.

Coffen had an unlikely knack for ferreting out the important points of a case. Hard to believe when he looked like a lumpen unicorn, with that great purple welt in the middle of his forehead bulging like a nascent horn. His tumble from Nellie had not addled his brain, however. He was wide awake and full of instructions. "Be sure to check out the registry of the George Inn, where Mrs. Webber was dallying with her doctor, just to see she ain't bamming us."

"I wonder how many George's there are in Brighton."

"The one you want's on the north road out of Brighton, one of them Tudor places with a mulberry tree in front, or at least there was seven years ago."

"It might be gone by now."

"Look for the stump. And Ed Harrelson, the one that got Phoebe Huston in the family way, stayed at the Norfolk. You'll have to check it as well, though I don't think for a minute Mrs. Huston was lying. Thing to do there, see if you recognize anyone else staying there at the same time. You might have a squint at the registers of other inns while you're there."

"This will take ages."

"Not if you stir your stumps. You'll have your coachman and Villier to give you a hand as well."

"Villier, quite possibly the best valet in London? I could never ask him to demean himself."

"That's what money's for, Reg. If you pay 'em enough, it ain't demeaning, it's business. How does it come he let you out of the house wearing your sofa blanket? Don't you have a scarf, a clothes horse like you?"

"This is a scarf, especially designed by Villier for the trip."

Coffen narrowed his blue eyes at the offending article. "Looks like that old yaller sofa blanket to me. At least no one in London will see you."

Prance tweaked the end of his scarf and sniffed. "One always considers the source of an insult."

"You're right. Villier wouldn't know any better. Oh, and Reg, see if you can find out anything about Lady Jergen's Mr. Brunei while you're in Brighton. It'd be interesting if his name was on that registry at the George, for instance. He could be Ed Harrelson for all we know. Mrs. Huston had the notion Harrelson wasn't using his own name. Check the Norfolk for a Brunei as well."

As the tedium of all these investigations came washing over him, Prance sighed and said, "I do wish you could come with me."

"So do I," Coffen said with such genuine and heartfelt grief that Prance could only wonder at the difference between them. "Contrary of fate to lay me up at this time. I'm usually so healthy it'd make you sick. If this limb is feeling better by tomorrow morning, I mean to take a run down and join you."

"With that lump on your forehead?"

"Dash it, I don't walk on my forehead, like a tumbler at Bartholomew Fair."

"They walk on their hands."

"I can't do that either, worse luck. Where will you be putting up while you're there, in case I want to send a message?"

"Luten kindly offered me carte blanche at his house on Marine Parade and notified his housekeeper. I shall take my meals, other than breakfast, at hotels."

"You're a fool. Mrs. Partridge is the best cook in Brighton. I've never tasted such sausages. And her gingerbread! She puts raisins in it."

Prance gave a delicate shudder. He didn't eat sausages. If one must eat animal flesh, he at least insisted on seeing the grain of the meat. One never knew what might go into a sausage. As to gingerbread–with raisins or without, it was just one step above bread pudding. "I shall dine at the George and other likely dens, to have an excuse to pursue the necessary inquiries."

"You don't have to dine. Order an ale. You go at an hour when they ain't busy and sit and chat to the proprietor. Anyhow you'd best be getting along, Reg."

"I shall just go and have a word with Luten first."

"Him and Corinne have gone to visit Lady Jergen to see what they can find out. No point putting the trip off, tarsome fellow. Now go."

He drew a deep sigh. "I abhor Brighton in November. And I shall miss the Guy Fawkes fireworks too."

"Forget the fireworks. You're not keeping your priorities screwed on straight, Reg. If you get moving, you could be back in time for the fireworks. Now get going, Reg, and good luck."

Prance left, dejection in every dragging step. He made the fifty mile trip in physical comfort, aided by his well-sprung carriage, the sheered beaver blanket, the new scarf, the hot bricks, hot coffee and cocoa and the sleep mask when he tired of looking at leafless trees and dead grass. With his eyes covered, he mentally transported himself to Greece, with Byron. They were standing at the Acropolis with the pillars of the Parthenon, still glorious despite Elgin's depredations on its decorations, soaring behind them and Athens spread out below. Sunlight cast a blinding gleam on the Aegean Sea beyond. The sky was a bright cerulean blue, the breeze warm. He must bone up on ancient history and architecture to avoid appearing ignorant in front of the young scholar-poet.

In the shortening days of autumn, twilight was already drawing in when his carriage drew up at an elegant brick house on Marine Parade, just at the corner of German Place. Luten, so thoughtful, had sent a message on ahead to inform the Partridges he was coming. This portly country couple who took the Marquess of Luten in their stride were in complete awe of Sir Reginald. They had a fire raging in the drawing room grate and the best guest room had been hastily turned out. Mrs. Partridge had made sandwiches to "hold him over till dinner," as she described it. He could already smell the aroma of roast beef wafting through the house. Surprisingly, it did not turn his stomach. Perhaps he would take this one meal at Luten's place.

It was all so extremely comfortable that Prance was loath to leave the house. But after nibbling a sandwich (chicken) and sipping a cup of coffee he decided to take a jaunt out to the George and bribe the proprietor to let him examine the registry. He would gladly pay a pound or whatever price was demanded to avoid having to sit drinking ale in a common tavern.

He was just donning his coat to leave when Mrs. Partridge came flying into the room, waving a letter at him. "His lordship has this sent down by his footman. Urgent, it says. Whatever can it be?"

Prance opened the letter and read: "Prance, the Bee has stung again! Sir Edgar Winchley's daughter is the victim. Make your first priority a call on the millinery shop now situated where Goodman's Jewelry Shop used to stand. Mrs. Partridge can give you the address. Try to discover who bought it, what was done with Goodman's records at his death, and anything else that seems pertinent. Speed is of the essence. You must be back in London by tomorrow evening for a party at which you will be Byron's special guest. I'll give you all the details tomorrow night. Good luck, Luten."

Such was Prance's character that the first matter he considered was that Byron was having a party, and it was necessary that he, Prance, be there. Not a matter to be wished for, but necessary–and Luten did not bandy words about carelessly. What could it possibly mean, save that the party was in his honour? This was cause for delightful conjecture. It was only the necessity of being back in London by tomorrow evening that urged him out to look into this jewelry shop business before it was quite dark outside.

He called Mrs. Partridge, and after assuring her that the message had not brought bad news, he asked her about Goodman's Jewelry Shop.

"It's called Mam'selle Grolier's now," she informed him. Prance's ears perked up at this suspicious intrusion of a French name into the case. Could Luten have been right about a French involvement?

"Ah, French, is she?"

"Not really," Mrs. Partridge confided, "but she calls her customers Monsieur and Madame. It sounds good. She caters to the quality summer crowd, you know, though she stays open year round. I've not been in myself, but they do say it's ever so elegant, with a tiger skin rug on the floor Fancy, in a shop! And she serves you tea or coffee if you seem a likely customer. She didn't serve Mrs. Hudson any. That's the housekeeper next door. She's the one told me about the tiger skin rug."