To Mourn a Murder (30 page)

"What put such a pernicious notion in her head, I wonder?" he asked, gazing at her with an uneasy smile. Was she still flirting, vaunting her availability, or merely airing a grievance?

"The fact that I flirt a little and don't deck myself out like a crow in honour of my husband's advanced years." The sting of anger in her accents suggested she was not flirting. "I am twenty-nine years of age, Sir Reginald. Callwood chose me because I was young and pretty and vivacious. Those are his words, by the way. I am not idly complimenting myself."

"All of London would agree with you, madam. Your only error is to use the past tense."

She gave his fingers a familiar slap, pleased with the compliment. "I would feel I was not fulfilling my part of the marriage bargain if I suddenly took to acting like his mama. Why shouldn't I buy a bonnet with a scarlet flower on it if I wish? It's a very handsome bonnet. In fact Callwood complimented me on it. I showed it to Mrs. Webber when she called the other day. She said it made me look like a lightskirt. A lightskirt, imagine! I retaliated that at least I didn't look like a carrion crow. She sniffed and said she must be leaving, although she had heard me call for tea a moment before. She insisted she had only dropped in to let me know she would not be attending our meeting that week as some cousin or aunt at Colchester had fallen downstairs and needed her help,"

"What meeting was that?"

Lady Callwood batted a hand on which a large diamond flashed. "Somehow or other she roped me into one of her charities to provide shoes for orphans. Really it's very foolish. We could shod every orphan in the city for half the amount of money we spend hiring a hall and musicians and arranging dinner and buying gowns for the annual ball. But it would not be nearly so enjoyable, of course."

"What day was the meeting scheduled for?"

"It was Guy Fawkes day." Prance's hand gave an involuntary jerk. The day Mam'selle was murdered! Lady Callwood gave him a sharp look. "Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity. I've caught it from my cat," he said, trying for a light tone to hide his excitement. He rattled on with tales of Petruchio's antics to beguile her out of her suspicion. Then he asked casually, "The meeting went forward without Mrs. Webber, did it?"

"Oh yes. She is the leading light but there are eight of us on the committee. Such weighty matters as whether to serve
milles feuilles
or
petits fours,
and whether to decorate with palms or flowers requires an octet. Lady Jergen took Mrs. Webber's place as chair lady for that meeting and speeded things up somewhat as several of us wanted to prepare for the Pantheon."

Prance made a mental note that both Lady Callwood and Lady Jergen were in London the day Mam'selle Grolier was murdered. Mrs. Webber, if she was telling the truth, was even farther from Brighton, at Colchester. How could they verify this?

"It must be difficult for Mrs. Webber to get around when she doesn't have her own carriage," he said. "But of course for a mercy mission, the elder Mrs. Webber would lend her the rig."

"Not she! Mrs. Webber had to take the ordinary stage. I wonder if she was hinting for the loan of my carriage. Perhaps
that's
why she was in such a horrid mood. I never even thought of it till this minute. What a selfish beast I am."

"You're not a mind reader, milady. How could you know what she wanted if she didn't ask? Spiteful of the old lady not allowing her to use the family carriage. It must be hell living with someone like that. I'm surprised Mrs. Webber hasn't found herself another
parti.
Her husband has been dead some time now, and she's really quite handsome."

"She has very exacting standards," Lady Callwood informed him with a satirical little grin. "We've all made quite a project of presenting gentlemen to her. She always finds some fault."

"What is it she demands of a
parti?"

"Not what any normal lady would consider desirable. She cares nothing for face or fortune. She demands only the morals of a saint, the mind of a scholar and the charitable instincts of the Good Samaritan."

"Yet Webber was no saint, if memory serves," Prance said.

"No, nor Mrs. Webber either in those days, to judge by her fling with her doctor. I do feel her sanctity is only skin deep. True goodness wouldn't have such a spiteful tongue. Why don't you try your wiles on her, Sir Reginald?" she asked.

He took her hand and squeezed her fingers. "I fear my morals make me ineligible. And in any case, I prefer vixens," he said, gazing into her eyes. To his astonishment, Lady Callwood gently but immediately retrieved her fingers. The lady was not open to such blatant advances as that. Perhaps she didn't deserve her racy reputation after all. She really shouldn't lead a gentleman on with those leering smiles if she didn't mean it. As soon as the tea was gone he took his leave. He called on Byron and learned he was out.

The Berkeley Brigade, augmented by Lord Byron, met in Luten's drawing room late that afternoon to discuss their findings. Despite the fire blazing in the grate the room felt unwelcoming. It was too large to light properly, too formal, too stiff. They were to remain for dinner after the meeting. Corinne was acting as Luten's hostess. She had arranged the dinner with his cook in preparation for her role as Lady Luten.

Byron went first. "Danby
was
at Jackson's Parlour those days he claimed to be and at Manton's in the afternoons. I asked around and he was also in and out at Alfred's every evening except one, when he attended Drury Lane with a friend. I couldn't get an exact account of what hours he was at Alfred's the night of the robbery at the Pantheon. He could have left well before midnight."

Prance gave his report next. "Lady Callwood was at a meeting at Lady Jergen's the morning of Mam'selle's murder. That lets them both out. Mrs. Webber begged off, the excuse being that an aunt or cousin in Colchester had taken a tumble and needed help."

"Did you get the aunt's name?" Coffen asked.

Prance felt a stab of annoyance. He knew he was ten times as smart as Coffen. How was it possible Coffen could always make him feel inadequate in these matters? "No, Lady Callwood was becoming suspicious at the nature of the questions. I did learn, however, that Mrs. Webber took the stage to visit this aunt."

"It'll be a job checking up on that," Coffen grumbled.

"Had you any luck with the link-boys?" Prance asked to deflect further questions.

"I did. The bottle was given to Joey, that's the fellow who delivered it, by a pretty lady wearing a black bonnet with a red flower on it, not too blocks from Stephens's."

"But that's amazing!" Prance cried. "Lady Callwood mentioned buying just such a bonnet when I was with her this morning. At least the red flower. I don't believe she gave the colour of the bonnet. She's far too clever to have mentioned it at all if it could tie her to Danby's murder."

"I ain't finished," Coffen said. "The woman with the brandy told Joey to leave it at the desk and say it was for Danby. He thought p'raps the woman was an actress. She wore rouge and powder."

Prance sat, frowning. "Lady Callwood paints, but too delicately for a link-boy to tell."

A frown pleated Luten's brow. "I sent a footman down to Brighton last night," he said. "He returned half an hour ago. The tobacconist Coffen spoke of described the second lady who went into Mam'selle's shop as being severely dressed in black. A widow, he thought. It doesn't sound like the painted lady in the red bonnet,"

"Red flower. Black bonnet," Coffen reminded him. "All we're talking about is a bonnet and rouge, though. Both easy to put on or take off. I wonder if Mrs. Webber knew about that bonnet with the red flower."

"She did!" Prance cried, becoming excited. "In fact, she disparaged it and told Lady Callwood she was gaining herself a bad reputation, wearing such things."

"Then it's clear as glass that Mrs. Webber went to Brighton, not Colchester, wore her own duds into Mam'selle's shop and killed her. Rushed home, stuck a red flower on her bonnet to let on she was Lady Callwood and sent the brandy to Danby. She still had time to make it to the fireworks."

"But why would she kill Mam'selle?" Corinne asked. "Was Danby having an affair with the milliner? If Mrs. Webber was jealous, then she must be involved with Danby herself. Romantically involved, I mean."

"More likely it had to do with Mam'selle knowing Danby cleaned out Goodman's jewelry shop," Luten said. "With Prance there asking questions, they got nervous."

"How would they know Prance was there?" Corinne asked.

"They knew we were looking into the whole business and would get to Brighton eventually," Coffen explained. "Slicing that page out of the register at the George proves they were nervous. Danby must have known his uncle was seeing Mam'selle that summer and could finger him."

Luten summed up the situation. "It seems Danby and Mrs. Webber were still on good terms at that time, or she wouldn't have killed Mam'selle for him. The falling out must have occurred later. I wonder what caused it."

"His flirting with Lady Callwood," Corinne said, aware of the folly jealousy could lead a person into. "Or perhaps she feared we would eventually tie Danby to the Bee through the letter he got at Goodman's, and decided to kill him before he could talk and drag her into it."

"And since the money wasn't in his room, she must have it," Luten said. "I expect he kept the necklace as it was his job to sell it."

"That's cleared up something that's been plaguing me," Coffen said. "Bath, and Webber's letter that she let on was stolen there. There never was such a letter. She made it up to look like a victim so we wouldn't suspect her, and for an excuse to keep an oar in on our investigation. Hit herself on the head that night she let on she was robbed, or had Danby do it."

"It answers another question as well,” Luten said.

"It accounts for the Bee knowing about Lady Callwood snitching the brooch. Webber lived near Shepton," Coffen supplied.

"That too," Luten agreed, "but I was referring to Danby's trip to the George to remove that page from the register. If Mrs. Webber invented her affair with the doctor to bullock her way into the investigation, their names were never in that register. He took it so we wouldn't see that Webber and her doctor, who may or may not exist, were
not
there on the date she said."

"By the living jingo, you're right, Luten," Coffen cried. "Mrs. Webber killed poor Mam'selle and Danby. Now all we've got to do is prove it, and get back the money she got out of her victims."

"And how shall we do that?" Corinne asked.

"We'll have to come up with a cunning scheme," was Coffen's answer, just as the butler announced dinner.

As it was Mrs. Ballard's night for whist, there were only five to be seated at dinner. Corinne had chosen to have it served in the morning parlour. This cozy chamber was a welcome relief from the grand drawing room. Candlelight sparkled on crystal and twinkled on silver. Luten sat at the head of the table, she at the foot. He lifted a glass in salute to his guests before drinking. As she smiled at him and looked around the table at her friends, she was overcome with gratitude.

Life had been kind to her. She and Luten hadn't quarreled for weeks now. Soon she would be his wife, the permanent hostess of this house, and of Luten's estate, Southcote Abbey. She would provide him with two sons, and a daughter for herself. He, she felt sure, would one day succeed in his goal of becoming Prime Minister. She was sorry to be jolted out of her reverie.

"About that cunning scheme," Coffen said, severing a wedge of turbot and lapping it in white sauce, "Joey, the link-boy, could finger Mrs. Webber. And p'raps the tobacconist in Brighton as well. The link-boy's easier to get hold of, and he saw her up close."

Corinne dropped her fork and sat, staring. "Luten!" she said in a frightened voice. "We've got to find that boy to make she sure doesn't kill him."

Luten's hand froze as he lifted his fork to his lips. "Coffen, where is this urchin to be found?" he asked.

"Corner of Grafton and Old Bond, just where it turns into New Bond, is where I found him this morning. There'll be plenty of traffic. With darkness fallen, he'll be out with his torch, if she hasn't slid a knife between his ribs already."

A stunned silence fell over the table. Into the silence, Corinne cried, "For God's sake, someone go!"

The gentlemen exchanged a quick glance, then all rose to their feet at once. The turbot was forgotten, like the mutton that was to follow and the raised fowl and a dessert of raspberry fool that cook had slaved over.

"We don't need an army!” Luten said. "One of you come with me."

"I'm on," Byron said eagerly, which forced Prance to proclaim his eagerness.

"I ain't staying home," Coffen said in a voice that no one cared to challenged.

"Just one of you," Luten said.

Coffen was already reaching for his cane. "Let's go," he said, and they hurried out of the dining room as quickly as their limps and canes allowed.

The three remaining at table had suddenly lost their appetites. Byron glanced at Corinne, who was looking at him in an assessing, worried way.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked.

"We've sent two hobbled men after a murderess who could outrun them–and they would hesitate to shoot a lady. You should have gone, Prance. And so should I."

"I'm used to my limp. I can set a fair pace," Byron said.

"Good. Then we'll all go," she said, and they rose as one.

"Let's walk," Corinne said. "It's only a couple of blocks away, and there's no saying Joey is right on that corner. We may run into him." Then she remembered Byron's club foot and said, "Oh!"

"Run on as fast as you can. I'll not be far behind you," he urged.

"Pistols," cried Prance, as he threw Corinne's pelisse at her and twirled his
écharpe
around his throat. "Evans, two of your master's pistols."

"His lordship and Mr. Pattle took them, sir," Evans replied.

"Damme, he must have another about the house somewhere."

"One in each of his carriages, sir. He and Mr. Pattle chose to walk–er, run?" His tone was questioning, but Prance was in no mood to oblige him.