Murder on Charing Cross Road (20 page)

“I was chef for Lady Melvoir, in Bath. Perhaps you’ve heard of her,”
Black replied with a sneer.

“Do they have chefs in Bath?”
Cocker answered in the same tone. “I have an excellent chef. What I need is someone to help cook with the simpler dishes.”

It was the kitchen that Black wanted to penetrate. “I’ve done some simple cooking in my time,”
he allowed. “A beefsteak, chops, a roasted chicken.”

“Go and have a word with my chef,”
he said, and directed Black to the kitchen.

Black entered a large, busy, hot kitchen, redolent with the aroma of roasting meats and steam from coffee. A dozen pots boiled on the stove, while three men in aprons rushed about, preparing vegetables, stirring the pots, and rattling dishes. A boy, not yet in his teens, was washing dishes at the sink.

The chef, Mr. Malcolm, took a look at Black’s suit and general air of knowing what he was about and took an instant dislike to him. He preferred younger, more disreputable looking fellows who were glad to get the work and took their orders without question. Black, meanwhile, subjected Malcolm to a similar examination and knew they were ill-suited to work together.

Malcolm badly needed an extra pair of hands, however, and said, “Let’s give it a try. We’ll be serving up lunch soon. You can take that joint of beef out of the oven and carve it up. We like it sliced not too thick, not too thin. Jerry here will find other jobs for you. You’ll want to take off your jacket and put on an apron.”
The chef then proceeded to strut about the kitchen, lifting lids on simmering pots, adding a dash of salt or pepper, and berating his staff.

“Welcome to hell’s kitchen,”
Jerry said, when they had introduced themselves. He was a small, wiry fellow with the shattered remains of a few teeth that he showed in a ready grin. His head was wrapped in a tea towel to keep the perspiration out of his cabbage green eyes. “The work’s brutal, the hours long and the pay small. But the grub ain’t bad, and when his majesty takes his break, we nip into the wine cellar and reward ourselves.”

“Why do you stay?”
Black asked, hanging up his jacket and wrapping a white apron around his waist.

“I like to eat, don’t I? Times is hard, Blackie. What brings you here?”

“As you said, times are hard.”
He was shown where to find the carving knife, where to carve the roast, where to find dishes. All the while Jerry kept up a patter of conversation.

When Black deemed the time was right, he said, “I hear you had a couple of Frenchies working here.”

Jerry didn’t inquire how he knew this. “We did, and I’m sorry to lose them, say what you like. They were good workers. Nobody could stir up a ragout like Henri.”

Black took note of the familiar name. “There’s an art to that. Why were they let go?”

“Thieves. Caught with their fingers in gentlemen’s jackets, helping themselves to what they could find. Well, Frenchies. That’s their way, innit?”
he said, with no air of condemnation. “Off with the heads of lords and ladies.
Leebairtay, aygaleetay, fraterneetay.
That’s French for what’s yours is mine. But I miss Henri and Guy.”

“Good friends, were they?”

“We’d have a few wets after work.”

“Here, at the club?”

“With his majesty watching over our shoulder? Not bloody likely. We’d go to the Black Swan tavern, just ‘round the corner.”

Black tried to learn other details about Henri and Guy. “They were friendly enough but they preferred their own company,”
he said. “They talked the bongjaw between themselves, you see.”
He thought they lived in a basement and had heard them mention Mrs. Horsely, who had that big old brick rooming house on Little Hart Street.

“I wonder how Cocker come to hire Frenchies,”
Black said, in a last attempt to find information. “I expect somebody recommended them.”

“Nossir, it’s catch as catch can at this place. They’d hire a shaved ape if he knew how to peel a tater. The workers here never last long. None of them can stand his majesty,”
he said, casting a green eye at Malcolm, who was hitting one of his cooks over the head with a spoon and complaining of lumps in the gravy. “I’ve been here longer than any of them. Two months, and I’ll be out the door soon as I find another place.”

Black stayed until lunch had been served, at which time he informed Mr. Malcolm that he found the position “did not suit.”

“I thought as much,”
Malcolm sneered, and batted his hand to indicate Black could leave.

Black removed his apron, threw it on the floor and stepped on it, put on his jacket and went in search of the Black Swan. It was a thoroughly disreputable place, the sawdust on the floor black as mud, the deal tables so grimy Black stayed away from them. Half the clientele were already well into their cups at noon. He stepped up to the bar and ordered an ale. When the server put it on the bar, Black said, “I’m looking for a couple of fellows — Frenchies. Henri and Guy. They told me they often come here.”

“Not no more,”
the waiter said. “Not since they got the boot from that club where they were working.”

“You wouldn’t know where I could find them?”
he asked, to confirm Jerry’s information.

“I heard them mention some rooming house. Mrs. Horsely, I believe was the name, if that’s any help.”

Black left him a small tip and left. He decided to have a bite at home before visiting Ned Sparks.

Prance was eager to go on the strut to show off his new jacket and curled beaver. He had not yet found a replacement for the sword in a cane but felt his ebony walking stick was capable of landing a bruising blow across an attacker’s head and shoulders. He would be safely delivered to Bond Street by Pelkey, who had arranged to fill the pockets of the new carriage with replacements of the ammunition lost at Long Acre.

Decked out in his new finery, he sent for his carriage, then crossed the street to call on Coffen. His rumpled friend’s appearance added nothing to his cachet, but Coffen made an admirable bodyguard.

“All set, Coffen?”
he asked. “Our humble job this morning, you recall, is to walk about town and see if we are being followed.”

“I’m ready,”
Coffen replied, searching for his hat. It was never where it should be. He found it on a chair in his salon. Someone had sat on it, but as it might very well have been himself, he just poked it into shape without complaining. “The thing to do, one of us walk ahead, the other go behind to see if he’s being followed. Which do you want?”

“I thought we’d go together, and keep our eyes open.”

“That won’t work. We don’t have eyes in the back of our head.”

Prance considered the matter a moment and soon decided it would be reassuring to have Coffen watching him. “I’ll go ahead,”
he said. “Bond Street, don’t you think? It gives the best chance for leisurely strolling. What do we do if you spot someone following me?”

“I follow him. See who he is, then join you. We’ll tackle him together.”

Prance considered this a moment. There might also be someone following Coffen, which meant accosting two vicious Frenchies. “Luten mentioned we might contrive to follow him to their lair,”
he said,

“Deuce take it, Reg,
he’s
following
us.
We can’t lead him to his lair. We don’t know where it is.”

“But we might be able to find out. You pick me up after you’ve spotted him, we drive home and watch. He’ll hire a hackney and follow us. He’ll have to leave sooner or later, be replaced by another spy. Very likely there’s one lurking about Berkeley Square. We’ll follow him when he leaves and see where he goes, tell Luten and see what he wants us to do.”

“Or we could follow him, break into his lair and search for clues.”

“That, or Luten could have Townsend arrest them.”
Certainly that was the course Prance preferred.

“No reason we couldn’t do both. We’ll follow them to their lair, you dart off and notify Townsend and I’ll break in if there’s only one there. How will you know I’ve spotted him?”
Coffen asked, and answered the question himself. “You choose some shop you like to dawdle in. I’ll meet you there in, say, an hour after we hit Bond Street and let you know. If we haven’t spotted anyone in an hour, we’ll take it we’re not being followed and give it up.”

This sounded like a pleasant way to pass an April morning. They drove together to Bond Street in Prance’s new carriage, then got out. Prance gave Pelkey his orders to be waiting on this same corner in an hour, Coffen crossed the street as if he had somewhere else to go. He’d do his watching from the other side. Prance began strolling along, thoroughly enjoying the balmy April morning, with the sun shining and friends stopping to congratulate him on his recovery. A few complimented him on his jacket.

One told him he would set a new style — music to his ears — wearing such a dark shade of blue.

He stopped at shop windows, occasionally entering and even purchasing a few baubles. He found an elegant little magnifying glass with a handle in the shape of a nude lady. Rather naughty. In fact vulgar, but it struck him as the sort of thing Baron Wolfried might have in his study. Wolfried had surprised him last night when he was writing by professing admiration for the art of Fuseli, whom Prance considered little more than an illustrator, though a demmed fine one.

He couldn’t quite resist a new snuffbox to replace the one destroyed at Long Acre. He liked that its colours matched his family crest, black enamel with a gold rose pattern on the lid. In his book, the rose would be a clue that his man of iron had a softer, sentimental side, to please the ladies. And the box opened easily, so handy for dashing cayenne powder in an attacker’s eyes. The cayenne had certainly worked on Villier when they put it to the test. Villier had howled like a scalded cat. His poor eyes were red for an hour. He should test the cayenne and see if it made Coffen sneeze.

At the appointed hour Coffen strolled into the snuff shop where Prance had taken refuge and joined him at the counter where he was torn between purchasing Spanish bran, which was too common to suit him, and violet Strasbourg, which he liked but knew for a lady’s mix. He felt Wolfried would really prefer the powerful Brazil.

“Not a sign,”
Coffen said. “If anyone’s following you, he’s invisible. And I’m pretty sure no one’s been tailing me either. I kept glancing over my shoulder.”

“Then we might as well go home.”
He would discuss the choice of snuff mixture with Villier before purchasing.

“Yes, I’m feeling peckish. Didn’t have much breakfast. I daresay André is preparing some feast for you? Seems a shame to waste it.”

“No need to hint, Coffen. Naturally you will be lunching with me, since your chef doesn’t care to cook.”

“To be fair, Reg, he tries.”

“And after all these years he still hasn’t mastered the intricacies of boiling a potato.”

“You’re wrong there. He’s too good at it. He boils it to a mush.”

“As I said, he has not mastered the art.”

“You’re the one could teach him about art.”

“Now if only I could teach you how to converse sensibly.”

They strolled back to the corner where Pelkey was waiting. Prance, who felt about food the way Coffen’s cook felt about cooking, showed off his new acquisitions to Coffen as Coffen did justice to André’s consommé, omelet and Chinese cake.

“I hope you’re not planning to keep that naked woman on your desk where people can see it,”
was Coffen’s only comment.

The cayenne did not throw him into a coughing fit. Then he went home and Prance went to his study to work on his new novel, while Villier kept an eye on the street for any suspicious lurkers. He was happy to discover that Wolfried approved of both the new snuffbox and the naked lady.

* * * *

Coffen, dissatisfied with the morning’s work, called on Black to see if he was home yet, and if he had had any success. He had just returned from Arthur’s and the Black Swan and outlined what he had learned.

“I’m off to Ned Spark’s place this afternoon. See what I can pick up about the lad calling hisself Eric Martin.”

“Mind if I join you? Me and Prance had no luck at all. We wandered up and down Bond Street for an hour. I would’ve spotted if anyone was after us.”

“I’m pretty sure no one was following me either, and I’ve not seen anyone spying on any of the houses here. You’re welcome to tag along to St. John’s Wood, Mr. Pattle. You could make out you’re after a horse, to give us an excuse to loiter about a while. We’ll make it something he don’t have to let you off the hook.”

“A pair of grays,”
Coffen said. “I
am
looking about for a pair. Thinking of setting up a curricle. Always wanted one.”

“I can just see you, ripping along at sixteen miles an hour. And it’d give you freedom as well, since Fitz ain’t what you’d call a good whip.”

“There’s that as well,”
Coffen admitted. Black had rumbled his excuse in a minute. But he really did want a curricle.

“We’ll take my carriage,”
Black said, and felt like a lord making the offer. “Luten’s put it at my disposal entirely at this time.”

Luten had not thought to put a footman at his disposal to send for the carriage, so one of Coffen’s servants had to be bribed to do it. Black just shook his head at such goings-on. Mr. Pattle needed a keeper.

The drive out to St. John’s Wood was pleasant in spring, with the trees greening, shrubs blossoming in the hedgerows and wild flowers dappling the meadows. Ned did his acquiring under cover of darkness, but he had a few buyers examining his stables by daylight. He recognized Black at once. Any man who had bought a horse from him and neither come back to complain nor set the law on him was treated like royalty.

“Mr. Harper,”
he said, using the name Black had used on his first visit. He smiled and extended his dirty hand. “How are you making out with Long Acre?”

Coffen blinked in astonishment, until he remembered this was the name given to Smoker. “Rides like a dream, Ned. I’m so pleased I’ve brought along a friend, Mr. Jones, to see what you’ve got in your stable.”

Ned extended the hand to Coffen. “You’ve come to the right place. What is it you’re after, Mr. Jones? A carriage horse, a hunter, a hacker?”