It was too reasonable a request to talk away. Prance and Corinne expressed their sympathy and left. The man Luten had watching Clare would see if he spent his day as he had outlined.
“How can we find out where Drumquin is, and if he was really there yesterday?” Corinne asked, as they drove away.
“Drumquin is just outside of Croyden, not ten miles from London. He could easily have arranged to have Fanny picked up by some accomplice– you noticed the use of an anonymous hackney cab– killed her, and returned later to dump her body in the Thames, while his relatives, no doubt most of them drunk as Danes, will swear he was with them all night.”
“Or he could have hired someone to do the whole job,” she suggested. “He mentioned her having her throat cut. I wonder if he doesn’t know she was shot, or was just being clever.”
“He’s no fool. I wager he chose yesterday to murder her because the birthday provided an alibi.”
“Perhaps. What I was wondering was what ruse he used to get her to go off in the hackney with a stranger, or presumably a stranger. I know she liked Clare. I wonder if he offered to set her up as his mistress in some flat away from the annex.”
“I expect she’d have leapt at the chance.”
To avoid any unpleasantness about calling on Luten, Prance invited Corinne into his house when they returned to Berkeley Square. Luten had either been watching the window or asked his butler to notify him of their return. He came not five minutes after they arrived.
“You weren’t gone long,” he said. “What did you learn?”
Prance outlined the gist of their visit. “A hard alibi to test. How can we go asking his relatives if he was really there, at that party? It’s too farouche.”
“There’s one thing we can do,” Luten said. “Find out if yesterday really was his mama’s birthday. Now who do we know who would know? Lady Clare was a Simpson before marriage. Her brother does some work for Brougham. I’ll send a note off to the House.”
Prance brought his writing box of teak inlaid with ivory and Luten dashed off a brief query which Prance gave to his butler for dispatching.
When the footman Luten had posted to watch Clare was relieved by another footman, the former reported to Luten that Clare had indeed arrived home in his traveling carriage at ten o’clock that morning, which looked as though he had spent the night at Drumquin.
“Or somewhere,” Luten said doubtfully.
“True, I don’t know where he come from,” the footman said, “but I know where he went to when he left shortly after Sir Reginald and her ladyship this morning. He went to the headquarters of the Morgate sect. Doctor Harper’s office is there. I went in and asked to speak to Doctor Harper, the secretary said he was busy with Lord Clare. I went away without leaving my name. Said I’d come back later. I wasn’t wearing my livery, so they won’t know I’m working for you.”
When Prance’s footman returned with Brougham’s reply, their suspicions mounted. Luten’s face tightened in a chilly smile, then he looked up and said, “Interesting. It seems that Lady Clare, like Jesus, was born on Christmas day.”
“What a foolish lie for him to tell,” Corinne said. “He must know we could easily find out the truth.”
“He obviously has no notion we’re investigating him,” Luten said, with satisfaction.
“One almost wonders if he would not suspect, though, if he were guilty,” Prance said. “You are, no doubt, familiar with William’s insightful line, ‘Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.’ One’s first guess as to the source would be
Macbeth,
but it’s from one of the Henry plays. I’m not sure which.”
“He really did look genuinely surprised when we told him of Fanny’s death,” Corinne said, and waited for some blighting remark from Luten as to her gullibility. He just looked at her, frowning without speaking.
“His first reaction when we told him was very natural,” Prance said. “Not at all practised sounding, as if he had been rehearsing.”
“But he was lying about his mama’s birthday party,” Luten reminded them. “Did he sound natural then?”
“Yes, it came out very glibly,” Prance admitted. “You know, he might have been spending the day relatively innocently, with some married lady. Though I did find it odd Mrs. Bruton, who doesn’t strike one as by any means a literary lady, wrote such a detailed account of Fanny’s departure.”
Coffen arrived in the middle of their discussion. “Any news?” he asked. Prance poured him a glass of wine and rang for his butler. Coffen would soon be wanting nourishment. He was feeling peckish himself, which was unusual.
Luten outlined succinctly what they had been discussing.
“Lied about his own mama, eh?” Coffen said, shaking his head. “Hard to trust a fellow who’d do that, but I believe I may be on to something else. That Harry Morrison fellow from Somerset House who worked with Henry– I had a word with him. Took him to a coffee house. The lad can hardly talk without breaking into sobs. He’s loaded with grief about Fogg, and sounds guilty along with it. I believe he was Fogg’s boyfriend. And plus he was wearing a little gold ring, a dead match for the one I found near the Albany. Odd he’d throw away Fogg’s ring, though.”
“They would be pretty damning evidence if it were found on him,” Luten said.
“True, but then why take it at all? And the lock of hair as well.”
Prance attempted an explanation. “He might have taken them in an excess of grief when he realized he had killed his lover, then when he got outside, fear overrode grief. Self preservation is the most basic human instinct. Perhaps he saw a Bow Street Runner passing by, he panicked and flung them away. Though personally I am inclined to finger Clare as the murderer.”
“You always want the high and mighty to be involved in our cases,” Coffen said with a sniff.
“If we must dabble in sordid matters, I would prefer to deal with ladies and gentlemen.”
“Dash it, we’re dealing with a prince. The first gentleman of Europe the journals call him. Ain’t that enough for you?”
“It helps,” Prance conceded. “What did Morrison say?”
“He didn’t say anything about the ring or the hair. I didn’t mention them.”
“I don’t mean about the ring and the hair. I mean about his feelings for Fogg.”
“Well, he allowed as how he and Fogg were good friends, how Fogg had been the only one who made him welcome there at Somerset House. The others all thought they was too good for him, as he didn’t go to university like them. I found that strange since the general opinion around the place was that Fogg thought himself too good for the others, so why pick on the lowest one, unless it was a romance. No accounting for taste once it’s a question of romance. And the more damning thing, Morrison wasn’t at work yesterday.”
“Really!” That was Prance.
“Said he had a cold, but he wasn’t coughing or sneezing, and his red eyes were only because he was bawling his head off.”
“Did he admit to knowing Fanny Rowan?” Corinne asked.
“His head jerked up when I mentioned the name. He said in a sly sort of way he thought he had heard Fogg mention her. But he knows more than he lets on, for he rushed on to say that Fogg wasn’t the one who had got her in the family way– which she wasn’t, but of course she had let on to Fogg that she was.”
“But why on earth would Morrison kill her?” Corinne asked.
Coffen’s brow furrowed like a washboard. “I’ve been racking my brain about that. Here’s the way I figure it. You all know Fanny slipped out the window to meet me. Maybe she slipped out and went to visit Henry Fogg the night he was killed. Say Morrison landed in and found them together, took a jealous fit. Fanny must have left before he killed Fogg, but when she heard he was killed that night, she’d have a pretty good idea who did it. If she tried to get money or something out of Morrison to keep her quiet, then he’d have a good reason to kill her. He don’t seem the type, but when a fellow falls into a passion, there’s no saying what he might do.
Crime
passionel
,” he added, to clinch the argument, and tossed up his hands.
Prance leaned his chin on his index finger and said musingly, “It looks suspicious, his not being at work yesterday, when Fanny was spirited off.”
Coffen nodded. “It does. I thought of asking Fitz to stay behind and keep an eye on him but there didn’t seem much point as he was going back to work, so I mentioned I might drop in on him later, got his address, went and searched his apartment instead with the passe-partout I got from Fitz. He lives in a tumbledown set of rooms in an old cottage on the Thames.” He put his hand in his pocket, drew it out in a fist, opened his hand and on his palm lay an oval ivory miniature, framed in gold. “It’s Fogg,” he said, passing it around. “I found it beneath Morrison’s pillow.”
Luten drew a deep sigh. “They’re both lying, Clare and Morrison. And Fanny, the likeliest one to know the truth, is dead. Did you speak to Sally, Coffen?”
“Not yet. If ‘twas Morrison who did it, it’s not likely Sally would know anything about it. I mean to get a letter from the manager of Drury Lane this afternoon and take it to Sally. He’s promised to give her work, that’ll get her out of the annex. She’ll be so grateful she’ll tell me anything she knows.” The butler appeared at the door with coffee and sandwiches. “Ah, time for fork work! There’s a grand idea.”
Coffen began to snabble down the sandwiches while the others had coffee. Prance, seeing the sandwiches were all meat, found he had lost his appetite.
“What shall we do this afternoon?” he said, looking from Corinne to Luten.
“I’m going to call on Mrs. Bruton and see if she can describe the man or the hackney that picked up Fanny,” Luten said. He cast a questioning look at Corinne.
It darted into her head that this might be a sort of tacit invitation for her to join him, but she didn’t want to mention it in case she was mistaken. “What are you doing, Prance?” she asked.
“I shall sketch up a few designs for Clare’s auction ball. I must have something to show him when we return tomorrow.”
Luten turned a chilly look on Corinne. “And you, countess? No doubt you have some social outing planned?”
The dread name Byron hung in the air between them. To punish him, she said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.” Then she turned to Prance. “At what time shall we call on Clare tomorrow?”
“Let’s wait and see what develops from Coffen’s and Luten’s visits this afternoon before we decide.”
“Very well, then I’ll leave now. And please, don’t anyone feel it’s necessary to accompany me the two steps across the street in broad daylight.”
“No doubt your faithful Black will be watching out for you,” Prance said, and went with her to the door.
When he returned, he said, “I wonder what she’s doing this afternoon. Odd she didn’t see fit to mention it.” His eyes slid to Luten, who sat with his jaw clenched.
“In any case we know what she’s not doing,” Luten said, with nostrils flaring. “She is not helping us solve this murder. No doubt she has more important things to do. Buy a new bonnet, perhaps.”
“You ought to have asked her to go with you,” Coffen said. “A blind man could see she wanted to. Acting like children, the pair of you. Proud as peacocks.”
“The peahen is not known for pride, is she?” Prance asked. “No, of course not. Her forte is foolishness.”
“That as well,” Coffen said.
Luten glared at him. He figured Corinne had had time to reach home, so he rose and took his leave, mentally cursing himself, Corinne, Prance and Byron. And Coffen, for good measure.
Before going to speak to Mrs. Bruton, Luten decided to have a word with Townsend. He found him in his cramped, decrepit office on Bow Street, poring over his files with the avidity of a miser counting his gold.
“Milord, to what do I owe this honor?” Townsend asked, rising to make a jerky bow. He swiped a hand across a chair, depositing its cargo of papers on the floor. “Have a seat, do.”
“I would like to compare notes on the Fogg murder with you,” Luten said, and told the officer what he and his friends had learned thus far, from the beginning.
Townsend listened closely, his eyes trained on a smear of grime on the wall across the room to aid concentration. When Luten had finished, he spoke.
“It’s a curious case,” he said. “In the normal way, I’d not bother my head with it. Fogg is not a gentleman of any importance, and young Fanny isn’t even respectable.” Luten correctly interpreted this to mean the commission would not be worth his while. “But as a special favor to Lady Hertford, I’m taking some interest in the matter, despite the crush of other cases.
“I own you have got a leg up on me. Lord Clare is mixed up in it, eh? Well, the lad is no better than he should be– nay, a deal worse, considering he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. There’s no excuse for a lord to be running a gaming hell plus whore house. That said, he does run a tight ship. The cards ain’t marked, he don’t beat his girls or let anyone else beat them. There’s no violence, he charges no more than any other good bawdy house and he never tries to screw money out of his customers to keep their licentiousness a secret. In short, he runs an ungentlemanly club in a gentlemanly fashion.
“There has long been a demand for such an establishment, you must know. I blame it on the grand tour. It’s the depravity of France and Italy that debauches our lads. Their papas’ brought such notions back from the grand tour, and once these depravities get a foothold, it’s hard to quench them. Such perverts as get their pleasure from watching other people in their private acts are more to be pitied than censured. But murder! That’s a different matter.”
“And is voyeurism the worst that goes on there?”
“Voyeurism? If you mean a couple of handsome youngsters doing things that ought only to be done within the sanctity of marriage while others less virile gawp and drool, then that is what goes on. He dresses ‘em up like famous historical lovers and they talk dirty a while before they get down to the business of stripping and– and so on. They act Antony and Cleopatra, David and Bathsheba, Nelson and Emma Hamilton. There was a rumor he was to do Florizel and Perdita. Florizel was a nickname for Prinney when he was a young buck and was having a fling with that actress who played Perdita. Mrs. Robertson, was it? I warned Clare he was going too far. He would end up in prison like the Leigh brothers who wrote that article in the journal ridiculing Prinney.”