"What inn?" Coffen asked.
"The Hart. It's considered quite a decent place, I believe, but three rooms were broken into that night while we slept. Imagine! We might have been—" She came to a discreet halt, but her downcast eyes revealed the fate worse than death she was too modest to utter. "He took my jewelry box with the letters hidden under the lining in the bottom. The police never caught the fellow. I had only a set of pearls with me and didn't mind losing them. It was the loss of my dear letters that I have regretted ever since. I know them by heart, but I have nothing to
touch."
She drew a soft sigh and said wistfully, "Touching them was a comfort, somehow. It seemed to bring Andrew closer."
"And now, it seems," Prance said, "the fellow who took your jewelry box has found another means of robbing you."
"It would almost be worth the five thousand pounds to get my letters back," she said in a small, sad voice.
"About that five thousand pounds," Coffen said, "where did it come from, if you don't mind my asking? You mentioned neither you nor Hale had any money."
"I managed to save a little from the allowance Mr. Webber gave me. I invested–oh not in Consols!–in a shipbuilding company a friend recommended. It proved to be an excellent investment. Webber was not ungenerous when he was alive," she said, her voice hardening. "It was only after he died that I learned my fate. He left me nothing! It seemed the money was all his mama's. He only managed it for her. Her fortune is to go to my son, little Harold, when he reaches his maturity and in the interval is under her control. I have to go to her for every sou I spend."
That explained the dowdy clothes to Coffen's satisfaction.
"That's intolerable," Prance cried.
"Indeed it is, and if she ever suspected for one instant that her son was not little Harold's papa, she would cut us both off without a cent."
"Do you think he is Andrew Hale's son?" Byron asked. "Can you tell from his appearance?"
She shook her head. "I think Webber is his papa. Both gentlemen were of middle size with dark hair and eyes. Andrew had a sweeter look about him which is lacking in little Harold, though I love him dearly! He has the Webber mouth. I'm morally certain Webber is his papa, but frankly I don't really care. I love him either way and would hate to see him lose his patrimony. It's not for myself that I worry. I hope you don't think me so selfish. I did wrong and am willing to pay the price, but to see my son cheated for my sins! It is almost more than a mother can bear."
At the end of this speech she broke down into hard sobbing. Lady Jergen patted her shoulder and the gentlemen looked uncomfortable. When Mrs. Webber had her emotions under control she apologized. "I don't know what you must think of me," she said, again directing her words to Byron, who assured her that he admired both her courage and generosity of spirit.
His own mama had lacked any maternal instincts. Her notion of mothering was to attack him with poker and tongs, or throw a jug at him and send him off to boarding school.
"About your warning from the Bee," Byron said, "do you happen to have the letter with you?"
She drew it from her reticule and handed it to him. Lady Jergen gave him her second letter to compare. Both letters were on the same sort of anonymous white note paper, both written in the same rounded handwriting, both signed with a sketch of a bee.
"What does it say?" Coffen asked, peering to get a look.
Byron read: Madam, does your mother-in-law know where you spent the night of July 5, 1805? I do, and I have proof. If you care to purchase these valuable items from me, come alone to the corner of Bedford Place and Great Russell Street at midnight tomorrow night with five thousand pounds. There will be a hackney waiting. Get in, and we shall exchange valuables. " He looked around at the others.
Coffen reached out and took the letters to examine for clues. "Certainly written by the same fellow," was his unstartling conclusion. "Signed with the bee and all. This address, Mrs. Webber, is it close to where you live?"
"Only a block away. I live on Montague Street. I'm surprised he was so considerate. I don't have a carriage, you see, and Mrs. Webber is rather mean about lending me hers." Heads shook in sympathy.
"It's his usual
modus operandi,"
Prance explained to Coffen.
Coffen had, by this time, a hazy understanding of the phrase. "Anyhow, he's played right into our hands," he said. "We'll be there to meet him." He turned a harsh face to the ladies and said, "Mind you don't tell a soul! And let us know toot sweet if he pushes the meeting forward."
"I've spoken to my man about arranging the funds," Mrs. Webber said. "Should I go to meet this Bee person?"
"Go right along as if you intended to pay him, but we'll be there waiting to see he doesn't get your blunt," Coffen said. "We'll haul him off to Bow Street for you."
Mrs. Webber turned her pale face, anxious with worry, to Byron. "My name won't have to come out, will it? Surely you can prevent it, Lord Byron."
"I shall certainly try, Madam. I'm sure I can keep it out of the journals in any case. A written deposition–it might be arranged quietly, without your mother-in-law's finding out. I take it that is your chief concern?"
"That and little Harold. I would hate for him to think ill of me."
The details were arranged and the gentlemen rose to leave, in a flurry of gratitude and tears and reassurances.
As he shook Mrs. Webber's hand, Coffen said, "Do you happen to remember the name of the inn where you spent the night before leaving Brighton?"
She tilted her had to one side and smile sadly. "As if I shall ever forget! It was called the George."
"I seem to remember there's three or four Georges in and around Brighton."
"This one was on the main road to London, a little Tudor place, half-timbered, with a big mulberry tree shadowing the courtyard."
"I know the place. And what was your name at that time, before you married Webber?"
"Mrs. Harper. Why do you ask? Surely that is nothing to account, Mr. Pattle."
"It's my
modus operandi,"
he said, trusting Latin would be as obscure to her as it usually was to himself. Then he bowed and darted out after the others.
Prance was shaking his head as they got into the carriage. "Poor lady," he said. "Really the Bee is getting out of control. We must stop him."
"There's nothing so contemptible as a man preying on a helpless woman," Byron scowled. "What we ought to do is run the bounder through with cold steel. That would solve the privacy problem for Mrs. Webber. It does seem a shame that she should be dragged into court on his account. All it would take to prevent it is one well-placed blade, or bullet. I'm in practise from working out at Manton's."
Prance patted his arm gently. "I wasn't referring to murder. That is not the way the Berkeley Brigade operates, Byron. A little bending of the law is allowed when it is a case of a life for a life, but a life for five thousand pounds! No, it will not fadge. Human life is priceless."
"Seems to me some lives are worthless."
"Meaning the Bee's."
"I would call him a son-of-a-b," he growled.
"Thing to do, Byron," Coffen said, "give him a sound thrashing before we take him to Bow Street. Draw his cork, darken his daylights. That'll get rid of your temper without getting us tossed into jail."
"It's the hot Byron blood rising in me. I come from a violent tribe. I wouldn't be the first Byron with blood on his hands. You're right, of course, Pattle. The voice of reason."
Prance smiled. "From Coffen Pattle, of all people."
Byron examined Coffen with interest, then said to Prance, "There's more to your friend than meets the eye."
"And that is saying a good deal," Prance replied, eyeing Coffen's corpulent frame.
"Why thankee," Coffen said, blushing and unoffended.
Coffen and Prance got a glimpse of Luten's empty carriage leaving Berkeley Square as Byron delivered them home. They exchanged a silent glance that spoke volumes of their guilt. Byron deposited his passengers at Prance's door and drove off. It had been arranged that they would meet at the corner of Bedford Place and Great Russell Street at eleven-thirty the next night to catch the Bee.
This now seemed a mere frolic compared to the greater unpleasantness of having to tell Luten what they had been up to behind his back. They both agreed it was time he was informed. Lord Luten was the unofficial leader of the Berkeley Brigade. It was tacitly understood that he selected which cases they should undertake. He did not take the most active part, but he directed them. They watched a moment as Byron's carriage disappeared around the corner. Luten wouldn't like it that Byron had got them into this affair.
"Luten's back," Prance said.
"I saw his rig."
"Shall we call on him now?"
"Might as well get it over with. You tell him," Coffen said.
"It might come better from you."
"Why me? You're the one started it."
"Oh very well, if you're afraid of him."
"I ain't afraid. I just don't like it when he stares at me with them steely eyes. Makes me feel like a dashed truant."
"Shall we ask Corrie along with us? She'll be interested as well."
"A good idea. He won't cut up too stiff in front of her. And he'll be pleased she didn't tag along with Byron."
While they were still discussing their strategy, Corinne's door opened and her butler, Black, came darting out. His black hair, dark visage and black suit always reminded Coffen of an undertaker. What he lacked in looks he more than made up in ingenuity and service to his mistress. His one aim in life was to please her. To this end he scrutinized every move of her associates on Berkeley Square. No caller or carriage arrived or left without his knowing it and informing her ladyship if it might conceivably be of interest to her. He was also an ardent eavesdropper, so that he might foresee and provide what she required without her asking.
"He's in here with her," was Black's manner of informing them that Lord Luten was with Lady deCoventry. He had, of course, been listening in on her conversation with Luten and knew as much about the Bee as she did. "You might as well come in. She's told him where you were, and all about it." This, at least, was good news as it relieved Prance of one unpleasant duty.
"Thank you, Black," Prance said meekly, and they went in.
Lady deCoventry had had to leave her husband's entailed mansion on Grosvenor Square at the time of his death. Knowing the nip-cheese way of his younger brother and heir, deCoventry had made financial arrangements for his widow before dying. He had left her the elegant little house in which she now resided, along with a house in the country and twenty-five thousand pounds. Wisely invested, the interest on her capital provided her a respectable but not lavish allowance.
With Prance's help she had contrived a pretty drawing room with fine furnishings scaled to match the room's dimensions. Prance and Coffen entered together, wearing ill-at-ease smiles that froze to rictus stiffness when Luten turned his icy gaze on them.
"So, I hear you have gone into business for yourself, Prance," was his greeting, but uttered in a bantering tone.
"You were so busy I didn't want to bother you," Prance said. "I thought at the beginning, you see, that it was an isolated case, but now–"
"Corinne has filled me in on the background," he said. "Let us hear what happened today."
Corinne's companion, Mrs. Ballard, came pattering in to say good day, and wasn't it chilly for the time of year, though the grate took the nip off, and would they care for some coffee. Corinne had been shy of the servants when she first married. To make her comfortable, her husband had imported his mousiest relative, the relict of a country vicar, to keep her company. Mrs. Ballard remained on after deCoventry's death to lend the young widow propriety. It was understood that she would likewise remain with Corinne when she was elevated to Lady Luten.
Corinne said coffee would be lovely, and Mrs. Ballard scampered out, her duty done. It would be for Black to deliver the coffee. The new arrivals found seats.
"Well?" Luten said, fixing Prance with a hard stare.
"There's been another demand," Prance said. "That makes three, and there's no saying it won't become an epidemic."
He gave all the details, assisted, or at lest interrupted at frequent intervals, by comments from Coffen. When they had emptied their budgets, Luten astonished them by saying, "It's obviously a French plot."
Prance just stared. Coffen said what he always said when he didn't understand something. "Eh?"
"It's perfectly obvious," Luten continued. "Lord Jergen is highly placed in the Horse Guards, which is handling the war in the Peninsula with such disastrous results. The best that can be said of the gang at the Horse Guards is that they're totally incompetent. And Lord Callwood is one of the top dogs at Barings Bank, which is financing the war with Napoleon. Wars cost money, a good deal of it borrowed from the banks.
"What about Mrs. Webber?" Coffen asked. "Don't see how a poor widow lady could help Napoleon."
"We don't know much about her yet. I'll look into it. I seem to recall, however, that Webber had an estate near Dover, which is practically on France's doorstep. A natural location for spying, or smuggling in men or arms."
“But all the Bee is asking for is money," Prance pointed out.
Luten just shook his head. "Surely you realize, Prance, the b stands for Bonaparte. Bonaparte has taken the bee as his symbol. The Frenchies are amassing funds to help Bonaparte."
"I had heard something of the sort," Prance said, and felt a perfect fool, as he knew he would once Luten got at him.
"As far as that goes," Luten continued, "Byron is a well-known admirer of Bonaparte. He makes no secret of it. I think the less we see of him the better."
"I hope you aren't suggesting that Byron is a part of this plot!" Prance exclaimed.
"Oh really, Luten," Corinne scoffed, and laughed.
"It's possible! Who knows what strange notions he picked up abroad?"