Coffen just nodded, still speechless. “Stay right here, Fitz,”
Black ordered. “We don’t want to walk home.”
“You were a bit hard on him, Black,”
Coffen said as they walked toward Mrs. Horsely’s rooming house.
“That I was not, Mr. Pattle. It’s yourself that’s too soft.”
Had Fitz been Black’s servant, he would have felt the toe of his boot long ago.
Black made short work of the door into the basement room. “It looks like the landlord has cleaned it out already,”
Coffen said, looking around at the stripped cots, the empty closet, the dresser drawers pulled out and also empty.
“That, or Mr. Martin has been here cleaning up,”
was Black’s reply. “Let us hope Townsend beat him to it.”
“We’ll ask around. P’raps someone saw what happened,”
Coffen said.
“A good idea, Mr. Pattle. I hadn’t thought of that,”
Black lied. He had been about to suggest the same thing, but he feared he had offended Pattle by his treatment of Fitz and was eager to make it up.
They went up the stairs and knocked on a few doors. On the third try they had success. Miss Armoury, a retired teacher with an air of genteel poverty, spent her declining days sitting at her window, watching the world go by.
“Yes, the fellow who hired the room last winter came here in a hackney early this morning, just after the two other men left. He only stayed half an hour and left carrying a box of things, which is entirely strange, for he never actually lived in the room himself. Cleaning up for the next tenant, I daresay. I figured he rented it out by the day or week, cheap you know, for fellows who couldn’t afford a proper hotel.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know his name?”
Black asked.
“Mr. Jones, I heard.”
“What did he look like?”
Coffen asked.
The description matched that of Mr. Martin. Black was surprised to see a coin pass into the lady’s hand after they already had the information, not that the old malkin couldn’t use it. But that was Mr. Pattle’s way. Generous to a fault. Fitz had the carriage waiting for them. They drove home, with only one wrong turn.
“There, you see,”
Black said. “He could do it if you just leaned on him a little.”
* * * *
“Well, my pet, can you think of anything we could do to help the cause?”
Prance said to Corinne after the others had left.
“I’d give a monkey to know what Luten’s up to.”
“We know what Luten is up to. He’s at the House.”
“I wish I could think of something, anything. We seem to have reached a dead end. It’s very aggravating.”
Prance tossed his shoulders. “Coffen has gone to the Frenchies’
lair, Townsend is taking care of Ned Sparks. I see no point in returning to the Sheepwalk. Where else
is
there?”
“I wonder if Mr. McRaney might have anything else to tell us. He’s the only one who actually knew Bolton. When the Morgrave clue proved wrong, he thought of Mr. Martin. Or perhaps the man who looks after the flats might have remembered something.”
“Not very likely, I think,”
said Prance, who wanted to go home to bed.
“We’ve got to do
something.
I can’t just sit here all morning worrying.”
“Couldn’t you do something about the Orphans’
Ball? I know! Let’s go to Gunters and see what delicacies they’re preparing for it.”
“That’s been taken care of, Reg.”
“You’ve entirely abandoned Mrs. Ballard lately,”
was his next effort. “Why not take her to Bond Street? She’d love it. I’ll even buy her a paper of pins.”
Unlike Reg, Mrs. Ballard had no lavish desires.
“We’re going to see McRaney.”
She called Evans to have her carriage sent around and went upstairs to get her mantle and to tell Mrs. Ballard where they were going. She would be annoyed if she thought she was missing out on a trip to Bond Street. Reg also told Evans, as Luten had asked him to.
“It’s a horrid day,”
Reg scolded as they went out to the carriage. “Just look at that sky. We’ll be rained on before we get home.”
“Then it wouldn’t be very pleasant on Bond Street, would it? There’s an umbrella in the side pocket.”
The umbrella was not needed by the time they arrived at the block of flats where McRaney lived. A young gentleman was coming out the door of the building as they approached it. He stopped, looked at them in astonishment and said, “Why, it’s Reggie Prance, is it not? I haven’t seen you for years, Reg. How are you keeping?”
Prance had to search his memory to put a name to the vaguely familiar face. “Fine thank you, er —"
“It’s John Henderson,”
the man said. “Mad Jack they called me at Cambridge.”
“Mad Jack, of course!”
Prance said, smiling. Then turned to Corinne to make the introductions.
She shook hands with the handsome young gentleman and heard that John was a prime cut-up at university, before he was sent down for what was politely termed “insubordination”, but seemed to involve seriously roughing up a tutor. She tried to control her distaste at this tale.
“What are you doing now, John?”
Prance asked.
“I’ve just come to town. Pockets to let, or I wouldn’t be staying in this place. I’m looking for a position to supplement my measly allowance. I just moved in here yesterday.”
“Had you heard there was a murder here last week?”
“I heard —
after
I had signed the lease. They put me in the murdered fellow’s room. If I’d known, I’d have got a lower rent. I don’t have to ask what you’ve been up to, Reg. I see your book everywhere I go. I hear you’re with the Berkeley Brigade.”
“I am indeed. That’s why we’re here. We’re following up some clues in the Harry Bolton murder here, where it all began.”
“That’s the fellow who was done in in my flat. I wonder what he was up to that got him killed. I should have a look around. P’raps he robbed a bank and has hidden the money,”
he said, laughing, to hide his concern. Why did they keep coming back here? Were they on to him? “There might be a clue. I found some papers taped to the bottom of a drawer in the desk. They got pulled off when I stuffed the drawer below too full. I’ll let you know if —”
“Oh I say, John, you must let me have a look at those paper,”
Reg exclaimed.
Old Reg was as stupid and vain as ever and had taken the bait. Thought he had just single-handedly solved the case. Reg hadn’t realized who he was talking to, but their so-called Brigade was taking too much interest in this house. Pity he had said he just moved in. When they got together to compare notes, Pattle or Luten would soon figure it out. Why take chances? He had always hated Sir Reginald anyway, the demmed fop. Pity he hadn’t come alone.
“Why —
certainly, if you like, but they don’t look very interesting. Just names and places. I doubt they had anything to do with Harry Bolton, for half of them are in French. They must have been left by someone who had the room before him.”
Every word Henderson said made Prance more eager and more determined to see those papers. “We shan’t detain you long,”
Prance said, taking his arm and more or less pushing him back into the hallway.
“Right this way,”
Henderson said, and led them up the stairs to Room 302.
“Don’t mind the mess,”
he said.
Corinne looked around at the small living room and felt some pity for the handsome young man. She supposed it was typical of the sort of flat a bachelor without much money lived in.
He went to the desk and opened the top drawer. When his hand came out it held a pistol, which he pointed at them. His friendly smile was transmogrified into a menacing grin. “Now what the devil am I going to do with you two?”
he said.
“For heaven’s sake, John,”
Prance said, “this is no time to be playing off your tricks. Give me the papers.”
Corinne’s heart leapt into her throat. John Henderson wasn’t joking — and he wasn’t John Henderson either. Well he must be, of course since Prance had apparently known him for years, but he was also Eric Martin. He fit the description to a T, and he had been living here all the time! The room, now that she considered it, didn’t have the air of a flat just being occupied. There were no boxes waiting to be unpacked, no little items in odd places waiting to find their proper niche. The littered desk had obviously been in use for weeks.
She gave Reggie’s elbow a tug. “Reg, he means it,”
she said in a weak voice.
Prance considered himself something of an expert in reading facial expressions. One of his hobbies was drama, and he usually knew when someone was acting. Henderson wasn’t acting. He had always been a wild lad. That incident with his tutor at Cambridge — hadn’t the tutor been hospitalized? It was only through the influence of Henderson’s guardian that he’d got away with being sent down, instead of sent to prison. Old Lord Brampton had influence in high places — including the Horse Guards! Henderson was Eric Martin! And he was getting his information from his guardian.
His instinct was to take Corinne’s arm and run for the door. Would Henderson shoot them in broad daylight, with other occupants close enough to hear the shot? Yes, he would. That was why he had lured them in here. He was a wild and wily, reckless rogue. He’d do it, and get away with it somehow. Shoot them both and stick the pistol in Prance’s hand, make up some story of self-defense and an accidental shot hitting Corinne or some such thing.
“Don’t even think about it,”
Henderson said, with one of his smiles that was more menacing than the pistol. He went to the door and locked it, all the while with his pistol aimed at them.
Corinne willed down the surging panic and tried to think what to do. “You can’t shoot us both,”
she said. “You’d never get away. Tie us up, gag us and make a run for it. It’s your best option.”
Henderson sneered. “Pistols aren’t my only weapon, milady. A knife doesn’t make a sound, as Bolton discovered.”
Prance’s mind was racing. He couldn’t stab them both at once. He’d have to disable them somehow. He knew instinctively that he’d stab the man first, to be rid of what he considered the more dangerous one. And once he had the man out of the way, what might he not do to Corinne? His smile had a leering quality as he ran his eyes over her.
Both Prance and Corinne were looking around the room, hoping to discover a weapon they might snatch up. A silence stretched while the three stood, each wildly thinking how to successfully break this impasse. Then Henderson said, “You, Prance, on the floor, face down. Too bad about your jacket, but where you’re going it won’t matter, fop!”
Luten had no interest in being a hero. As a good Englishman he knew it was his duty to protect England. As a married man now, he also knew he had responsibilities to his wife and hopefully, before too long, a family. The important thing was to find Martin/McRaney and stop him, without losing his own life. Martin was wily and reckless. It would be foolhardy to confront him alone. He’d see if Coffen and Black had returned yet. Or in the worst case, Reggie. He seemed to have found his backbone lately. If none of them was available, he’d pick up Townsend to go with him.
He left his rig standing in front of the house and ran in. Evans informed him that Mr. Pattle and Black had not returned yet. Madam had left with Mr. Prance to visit Mr. McRaney. Luten’s heart turned to ice at the news.
Why the devil had she gone there, of all places? Had she learned in some manner that McRaney was Martin? Did she actually imagine that she and Reggie could capture that cunning knave? None of them here to go with him, and to stop at Bow Street might mean the difference between life and death. He must go alone.
“When Pattle and Black come back, send them to McRaney’s place at once,”
he said to Evans. “They know where it is.”
Evans saw Luten’s pale face, heard the strain in his voice, and knew something extraordinary was in the works — and Black not here to be a part of it, for once. “Certainly, milord. Er — dare I suggest that I would be happy to accompany you if —
if you feel —
that is —
I am a pretty fair shot.”
A sound like an hysterical laugh issued unbidden from Luten’s lips. “Certainly, Evans. Why not? Grab a pistol and don’t bother with a coat.”
Evans didn’t bother informing Roberts where they were going, or to take over the door either. He just told the gaping parlour maid to attend to her duties, then hastened to the butler’s room to grab the pistol he kept there and ran out after Luten, who had the carriage door open. He leapt in just as Luten gave his driver the destination and ordered him to “spring ‘em.”
Evans took note of the address. He wasn’t such a dab hand as Black at eavesdropping, but he knew well enough where Mr. Bolton had been murdered, and where McRaney lived. He held the pistol carefully. “You think Madam is in danger, milord?”
he asked.
“I fear it may be so, Evans,”
he replied in a grim voice. “Kind of you to volunteer.”
Seeing his lordship was in no mood for conversation, Evans sat silent, being bounced up and down mercilessly as the carriage bolted through town, nearly side-swiping a curricle and leaving raised fists and curses behind. He was half delighted to be in on the action, and half regretting his rash offer to help. Excellent butler that he was, he also worried that the door would go unanswered if anyone called, or nearly as bad, be answered by the parlour maid. When — if — he returned, he would leave word that should he have to leave in a hurry again, the parlour maid should immediately inform Roberts to assume his duties.
By the time the carriage drew up in front of the unimposing building, he had come to terms with the possibility of death and hopped out after Luten with no hesitation. After all, he was fifty years of age. He had lived a good life, and was ready to die a good death, if the lord so ordained.
Luten saw Corinne’s carriage waiting at the curb, and didn’t know whether that was a good thing or bad. All it said for sure was that she hadn’t left. He spoke to the driver who described the meeting with the “young gentleman”, who seemed to be well known to Sir Reginald. This was heartening, until he got a description of the “young gentleman”. Was it possible that Prance actually knew Martin? It must be he knew him under some other name.