“That should be safe. Let me know what you discover. I saw Black head out carrying some sort of case. What is he up to?”
“He’s going to put up at the Sheepwalk for a few days. It’s an inn as well as a tavern. He’s as good as a bloodhound for sniffing out trouble. He’ll keep in touch.”
“That’s fine. And I’ll speak to Corinne about Samantha Morgrave. She could make some inquiry about the Orphans’
Ball. Perhaps I’ll accompany her on the call to Samantha.”
“I’ll let you know what I discover. We’ll beat this thing, Luten.”
“We better! How’s Prance?”
“Pretty blue, and no wonder, the way he’s rigged his place out like a dungeon. Gives me the blue megrims just to visit him.”
“The gothic influence. That won’t last long,”
Luten said with a grin.
Coffen took a cab to Bolton
'
s flat. Fitz would never find it and he didn’t want his carriage standing about since he didn’t know how long he’d be inside.
He decided his first inquiry would be of the caretaker of the block of flats. The notice board indicated that his rooms were situated in the basement. Coffen went down a narrow flight of stairs and tapped on the door. It was immediately opened by a small but wiry sharp-eyed man of middle years with rusty-grey hair and a protruding chin that gave him a pugnacious air.
“Yessir,”
the man said. “I’m Tobin, I look after the place. What can I do for you?”
“I was looking for an old friend, Harry Bolton. There was no answer at his place. Any idea where I could find him?”
“You won’t find him. Not alive. He was kilt last night.”
“Harry, dead!”
Coffen said, with an effort to sound shocked. “What happened?”
“That’s what Bow Street and the rest of my occupants would like to know. Stabbed to death in his own little flat. A nice, quiet lad, the last one I’d expect to give me this kind of trouble. I’ll be lucky if I don’t lose occupants over this. Already I’ve had three threatening to leave, and old Mrs. Runciman wanting a new lock on her door.”
“Folks are like that,”
Coffen said in a supportive way. “You didn’t happen to see anyone calling on Bolton yesterday?”
“No, I wouldn’t see him from down here. I heard footsteps, but that’d be my people coming home from work and going out for the night.”
“Anyone in the place he was friends with? I’d like to talk about it with someone who knew him. Find out about the funeral.”
“He was a quiet lad, out and about a good deal of the time. Kept pretty much to hisself when he was in.”
“No friends at all? That don’t sound like Harry.”
“As I just told you, he was out most of the time. I’ve seen him having a word with young McRaney a few times. He’s in 302.”
“Would he be in now, or is he a working man?”
“You might get lucky. He don’t seem to keep regular hours. He’s out often in the evenings.”
“Before I go, could I have a look at your list of occupants? I might know someone.”
As he spoke, he put his hand in his pocket and jingled some coins to indicate he’d make it worth Tobin’s while.
A smile creased Tobin’s saturnine face. “No harm in that surely,”
he said, and went to ferret around a desk for the list. Coffen scanned it, looking for a familiar name or a ‘mor’, although he had no reason to believe Mor might be living in the building. He found no familiar name, and no 'Mor.' He gave Tobin a pourboire, thanked him and headed to the third floor.
He tapped on 302. The door was opened right away by a tall man about his own age. He had the air of what folks called a Corinthian —
hair cut short and brushed forward in the Brutus do. A good jacket of blue Bath cloth, but not the cut of a Weston. Nossir, that nipped waist and padded shoulders was the work of Stultz. Reg wouldn’t like it. Not a bad looking fellow, barring the sharp look in his eyes.
The man looked Coffen up and down and was not impressed by what he saw. “Can I help you?”
he asked in a cold voice.
“You’re McRaney?”
A pair of brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. “That’s what it says on the door. What do you want?”
“I came looking for a friend, Harry Bolton, and Tobin told me the sad news. Shocking! Tobin mentioned you knew Harry. Any idea what happened?”
“I didn’t catch your name, Mr. —
“
“Pattle, Coffen Pattle.”
“No, we have no idea what happened,”
McRaney said. “Bow Street is looking into it. Townsend mentioned the Berkeley Brigade is interested. You wouldn’t be the Pattle that was involved in that Berkeley Brigade case involving Lady Dunn!”
Before Coffen could reply, the man’s whole demeanour changed. He smiled widely and said, “You’re with the Brigade!”
“I am,”
Coffen said modestly. “Just doing a bit of digging around for Lord Luten.”
“Come in, come in. Sorry if I seemed a bit abrupt before. With a murder in the building a fellow gets a tad suspicious of strangers. I’d be happy to do anything I can to help.”
He led Coffen into a little drawing room that was similar to Bolton’s, but neater and showed him to the sofa. He sat down on a chair opposite, leaned forward and asked in a conspiratorial tone, “Why is the Berkeley Brigade taking an interest in the murder? Bolton wasn’t an important man, like most of your cases. Was he mixed up in something big?”
“We’re just getting started,”
Coffen said. “The only clue we have so far is the letters mor. Bolton was trying to write something just before he died. What I was hoping to find out is if you knew any of his friends or people he knew with the name starting with mor. Morgan or Morton or Morgr —
”
He stopped. Luten said not to mention Morgrave’s name. “Morgreen,”
he finished.
McRaney sat, rubbing his chin and frowning. “I believe he did mention a fellow called Morgreen the other evening. Sir something, I believe. Or maybe it was an honourable. No, it wasn’t Morgreen either. Morgraine, perhaps. I can’t recall but I have the notion it wasn’t just a plain mister. I don’t know this Morgraine fellow myself. That’s the only one I can think of.”
“That’s dandy!”
Coffen said. “I know who you mean. Matter of fact, and just between you and me and the bedpost, that name has come up before.”
“Really! You folks in the Berkeley Brigade work fast! It must be an important case.”
Coffen had no intention of revealing just how important it was. “It’s personal,”
he said, in a confiding way. “Harry was some connection to Luten. One of them half cousins twice removed, or some such thing. You wouldn’t know the connection between Bolton and Morgrave?”
The name slipped out before he could prevent it, but it was no matter. McRaney had as well as said it himself.
“That I couldn’t tell you. Harry was kind of close-mouthed about what he did and who he knew. Funny fellow. It was just a few evenings ago I met him as we were both leaving, asked him if he’d like to go out for a few wets, and he said he had to see this chap, Morgraine. I said ‘Let’s all go together.' He gave me a funny look and said it was business he had with Morgraine, not pleasure. I didn’t get the feeling they were friends. You don’t think this Morgraine killed him?”
“A bit early to say that,”
Coffen said, rising. He had got what he came for and was eager to get back and tell Luten what he had discovered before he took Corinne calling on a murderer. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. McRaney, just keep all this under your hat.”
“Mum’s the word,”
McRaney said.
McRaney rose and accompanied him to the door. “It’s been a real thrill meeting one of the Berkeley Brigade,”
he said, still smiling. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know. Poor Harry. A shame. I wonder what Morgraine had against him. I wouldn’t think Harry was the kind to be up to anything illegal, or —" He shook his head in confusion. “Maybe there was a woman involved. Something like that.”
“Did Harry strike you that way? A womanizer?”
“He never had any women here, as far as I know. But we weren’t close friends. Just casual acquaintances. Harry didn’t seem to have many friends really. Kind of a solitary fellow. I’m sure the Brigade will figure it all out.”
They parted and Coffen caught a hackney back to Berkeley Square.
Since Corinne’s marriage, Coffen had become shy about dropping in for meals when Luten was at home. As it was possible he was at home today with the new case to solve, Coffen went to Prance’s house for lunch instead. The food would be good, but there’d be either a lecture on manners along with it or more boasting about his book. At least he had an excellent excuse, even a reason. Prance would want to know what was going on. Unfortunately Prance had been put to bed by his doctor, so Coffen went to his own house and dined on cold cuts and crusty bread. As soon as he had finished his modest repast, he went across the street to call on Luten.
He found the newlyweds still at the table having coffee and was invited to join them. When Corinne asked whether he had had lunch, he replied that he’d “had a bite”, in such a hungry-looking way that she asked Evans to bring him a large piece of apple tart and cheddar.
He wasted no time making his report. “Morgrave’s our man right enough,”
he said. “The manager of the flats put me on to a fellow called McRaney who was about the only fellow in the building Bolton had anything to do with. They were about the same age and from the same rung of society —
gentlemen but not well greased, to judge by where they live. He told McRaney he was meeting Morgrave one evening last week. McRaney wasn’t sure of the name, thought it was Morgraine, but he mentioned the Honourable, so it’s the same person right enough. Anyhow, when McRaney suggested they all go out for a drink together, Bolton refused. Said it was a business meeting. I figure he was on a spying mission and didn’t want company. What we’ve got to do is break into Morgrave’s flat and look for clues.”
“That won’t be easy,”
Luten said. “The Honourable John Morgrave’s household will have a full complement of servants.”
“Yes,”
Corinne confirmed. “I’ve called on Samantha before. The place is not large, but it’s run in the grand manner. We’ll have to go and call on them, Luten, and see what we can discover. I’ll give Samantha a box of invitations for the ball for her to address, since she offered. I can’t believe she knows what John is up to.”
“Be careful what you say, just in case,”
Luten cautioned. “He’s not likely to tell us much but we’ll mention we’re working on the case and see how he reacts.”
“I’ll park my rig nearby and see if he comes running out after you leave,”
Coffen said. “Follow him, see where he goes. It might be a clue. I want to see what he looks like in any case, since I wouldn’t know him to see him.”
“Don’t make it too obvious,”
Luten said.
“I won’t. I’ll have Fitz get out of the rig and be poking around at the wheel, as if it’s broken.”
“You’re taking Fitz?”
Corinne asked in alarm.
“He can’t get lost following your rig.”
After a frowning pause, he added, “And Morgrave’s. If he gets lost coming home, it won’t matter. There’ll be no special hurry.”
“Well, shall we send for the carriage?”
Luten said, rising. “I still have to put in an appearance at the House after the visit.”
“Right, I’ll just dash home and send for my rig,”
Coffen said.”
When the two carriages arrived, they set out for the Morgrave’s flat. Coffen had ordered Fitz to draw to a stop a few doors down and wait.
The Lutens were admitted by a toplofty butler. Luten feared the trip had been in vain when he learned Morgrave was out and might not be home before dinner. Samantha was there, however, and welcomed them into an elegant drawing room not unlike Corinne’s former home, except for the colours. Samantha’s was done in blue to flatter her blue eyes and blonde curls. She was young and dewy-eyed, very pretty and friendly.
“Do sit down and have a glass of wine,”
she said. “John may show up at any time. One never knows when he’ll be back. I think he’s becoming bored. He was going to the Horse Guards to see if there was a position for him. Harley, a family friend, works there and suggested it as John is so interested in the war, and knowledgeable about it too.”
Luten had a hard time controlling his expression at this telling speech. He feared Harley had been unwittingly feeding Morgrave information, and now Morgrave wanted to be closer to state secrets. Old David Harley was a fool, but not disloyal, so far as anyone knew.
“It’s good for a man to have meaningful work to do,”
Luten said.
“And ladies too,”
Samantha replied. “And if I judge that box you’re carrying correctly, Lady Luten, I expect you have some work there for me.”
Corinne passed the box over. Samantha called for wine which they accepted, and they settled in for a little social chit-chat. Corinne hated to leave without further spying. She knew exactly what Luten was thinking about Morgrave’s wanting to get into the Horse Guards and she wanted to see if she could find any corroboration.
They were about to leave fifteen minutes later when Morgrave returned. He didn’t express either surprise or dismay to find them there but did ask, “To what do we owe this rare honour, Luten?”
Examining Morgrave, Luten took note that he matched Hopley’s description of the man Bolton suspected of being the spy —
young, tall, well built, dark-haired, quite handsome.
“Just accompanying my wife on a little errand,”
he said, pointing to the box of invitations.
“I hear you are thinking of taking a position at the Horse Guards, Morgrave. Congratulations.”
“Premature, I’m afraid. There doesn’t seem to be anything open at the moment. And what is the Berkeley Brigade up to these days, Luten?"
“As a matter of fact, we were handed a job this morning. A connection of mine, Harry Bolton, was murdered last night. His father asked us to look into it.”
“Another murder,”
Morgrave said, shaking his head in dismay but showing no other emotion. “It’s becoming unsafe to go out at night. How did it happen?”
“He was killed in his own flat.”
“Ah, a robbery. He’d have been wiser to just let them take what they wanted.”
“We don’t know just what happened yet,”
Luten said. “We were only called in this morning.”