Murder on Charing Cross Road (21 page)

“A team of grays for my curricle,”
Coffen said.

“Ah, I’ve nothing like that at the moment. But if you can wait a week or so, I just might have something coming in.”
He was curiously fortunate in that respect. Anything a customer asked for had a way of “coming in”
soon. “I sell more bays than grays for curricles,”
he added, as grays were hard to come by, and driven mostly by the upper class. He didn’t like stealing from them. They were demons for lodging a complaint against a fellow. “I have a team of bays you might want to take a look at.”

They went into the stable and were shown two or three bays, but not well-matched as to size and pulling ability. While Coffen patted their noses and felt their fetlocks, Ned said to Black, “You were asking me about Eric Martin, him that sold me Long Acre. He was here t’other day looking for a replacement for the nag he sold me. Got lucky at cards, he said. I didn’t have what he was looking for, but he left an address where I could reach him if a suitable mount came in. The Sheepwalk Inn, he’s putting up at. He’s there most evenings.”

“Oh yes. Thanks, Ned. Kind of you to remember. Did you mention he’s a Frenchman, or am I thinking of someone else?”

“He’s as English as you or me, Mr. Harper.”

Black knew a pourboire was expected and slipped a half crown into his palm when they shook hands before departing.

All three were pleased with the visit. “That was a lucky break,”
said Coffen, who had overheard the conversation.

“At least the day’s work isn’t an entire loss,”
Black said modestly.

“We’ll tell Luten as soon as we get home.”

“It seems Martin is using the Sheepwalk as a mail drop. I was out there yesterday and the Frenchies hadn’t been back. I’ll take a spin out there tonight and see what I can learn.”

“I’d be happy to go with you, Black. I haven’t done much to distinguish myself on this case.”

“We’ve all done our best. Can’t ask more than that of anyone. I’d be glad of your company, Mr. Pattle. And now we’d best go freshen up for dinner as we’re dining with her ladyship.”

“She told us not to change,”
Coffen reminded him.

“A clean shirt at least. We wouldn’t want to set down at Lady Luten’s table reeking of the stable.”

The nicety of putting on a clean shirt hadn’t occurred to Coffen. He found Steake’s lavender water useful to hide unpleasant odours. He’d have to see if Raven could rustle up a clean shirt for him. Like the rest of his servants, his valet took little interest in his duties. He found no clean shirt awaiting him, but he did wash up, run a comb through his hair, put on a new cravat and rub the dust off his Hessians before applying the lavender water and going to dinner.

Black conducted himself like a gentleman walking on eggs in Lady Luten’s salon before dinner and in her dining room later. He was careful not to overindulge in wine and to take no larger a helping of any of the various dishes than Lord Luten took. Handling the array of cutlery posed very little problem for him. When in doubt, he watched to see what knife or fork the others took up. He had been observing the swells long enough to know the proper way to wield cutlery and had been practising with Lady deCoventry’s best silver for years. Any servant knew enough not to put a used utensil on the tablecloth. Still, performing in public placed a strain on him and he ate so daintily and sparingly that Corinne feared the meal was not to his taste.

She needn’t have worried. If she had served leftovers it would have been like ambrosia to him. The thrill was in just being there, at
her
table, with a lord, a lady, a baronet and Mr. Pattle. He was a little surprised that no one mentioned the case during the entire meal, until he realized they didn’t care to discuss it in front of the servants.

He didn’t worry about not adding much to the conversation. Sir Reginald didn’t leave anyone much leeway for that. It was all talk of books and plays and music and art. Black was eager to learn about these things, but at the present, any time he had to spare was devoted to his French grammar.

At the meal’s end, Lady Luten said to the footman hovering nearby, “The gentlemen will take their port in Lord Luten’s study this evening, Roberts.”
Then they all rose and went there.

“You’re not leaving me out this time, Luten,”
she said, as he accompanied her down the hall. “And don’t tell me you want a cigar. You seldom blow a cloud.”

The wine was delivered to the study and the footman closed the door behind him. Luten took his seat at the desk and the others disposed themselves on the chairs. “I spoke to Townsend this morning,”
he began. “He had nothing to help us but urged that we keep him informed of what we learn. Have any of you anything to report?”

“Coffen and I did as you suggested this morning,”
Prance said. “We’re convinced no one was following us.”

Luten looked to Black. “I wasn’t followed either. I spent the morning working in the kitchen at Arthur’s. I didn’t get much we don’t know already. Henri and Guy worked there for a few days — they’ll take anyone they can get for the lower type of job. They got turned off for filching from the clients’
pockets. I did find out they stayed at a place called Mrs. Horsely’s rooming house on Little Hart Street. I don’t know if they’re still there. It was handy to Arthur’s, so p’raps they just rented by the week, knowing they’d not be staying at Arthur’s long. I can look into it.”

Prance and Coffen listened enthralled to Black’s latest success. “How on earth did you get them to hire you?”
Prance asked.

“They’d hire Jack Ketch if they could get him cheap. Nobody stays there for long. Mind you I wouldn’t say you have to worry about eating there. The kitchen was clean enough. ‘Twas the chef that don’t know how to handle his men that accounts for the turnover. I was hard-pressed not to land him a facer on my way out.”

“I was wondering how you got away after just half a day without putting them wise,”
Coffen said. “Didn’t they find it odd?”

“I don’t know if they did, nor don’t care. I can’t see that it matters either. I’m not after a character reference from the likes of them.”

“Quite right,”
Luten said, chewing back a smile. “Good work, Black.”

“There’s a little more,”
Black said. “Pattle and myself had a word with Ned Sparks this afternoon. He tells me Eric Martin is an Englishman. He says he’s putting up at the Sheepwalk, which he ain’t, but he left that address where he could be got in touch with in the evening, so I figure he drops in at night and might get messages there.”

“That’s interesting!”
Luten said. “We’ll have to have a man stationed there.”

“I planned to go there this very night. Mr. Pattle’s volunteered to go with me.”

Prance, not usually the first to volunteer, took exception to this. He had determined to be a man of action, and the visit to the Sheepwalk was the only action available at the moment. “Why Pattle?”
he asked. “I’d like to go with you, Black.”

Black stared in astonished dismay. “You might look a bit out of place, Sir Reginald. It’s not a fancy sort of inn.”

“I have other clothing I can wear. I’ve been amassing a complete wardrobe of disguises. I can do a credible vicar or footman.”

“Either one would stand out like a jester at a funeral,”
Black informed him with a shake of his head. “It’s a place for common folks. I passed myself off as a dealer in old books when I was there.”

“But I know a good deal about books! And if an opportunity to overhear any conversations in French should arise,
eh bien, je parle français courrament.”

Coffen gave Black an apologetic look and said, “He’s got us dead to rights there, Black. We wouldn’t know a parlay-voo from a turnip. You give him a hand in toning down his outfit and we’ll take him along.”
Black agreed with as good a grace as he could muster.

Coffen turned to Luten and said, “Just a thought, Luten, it might be a good idea to ride, rather than take a carriage. They might take off across fields or what not where a carriage couldn’t follow. Do you ride at all, Black?”

“Certainly I do, Mr. Pattle, but I’ve no mount.”

“Take Smoker,”
Luten said at once. “He could do with the exercise. No, on second thought, if Martin’s there he’d recognize him.”

“He’ll recognize
us,
since they’ve been following us for days”
Prance reminded him.

“True, but if he arrives after you and sees Smoker in the stable, he might not enter. You should choose a dark corner for your table to avoid being recognized.”

“And if he spots us and leaves, we’ll jump up and follow him,”
Coffen said.

“Take my Jezebel, Black,”
Corinne suggested. “She’s up to your weight. Not a prime goer like Prance’s and Coffen’s mounts, but it’s not likely the Frenchmen will be riding.”

It was arranged that they would call on Luten as soon as they returned to let him know if they had had any luck. Black and Coffen accompanied Reggie home to alter his appearance. Villier scoured the attic for the oldest jacket, boots and hat he could find, and Black advised him to exchange his elegant ebony walking stick for a sturdier blackthorn one. The mounts were sent for and they set off into the darkness.

April’s warming sun had set and a brisk boreal wind blew in their faces, making the ride unpleasant. Prance feared and complained more than once that it wasn’t doing his ribs any good.

The branches of black trees swaying and creaking overhead in the wind added an ominous note. The crescent moon drifted between patches of cloud, at times silvering the metaled road, at times coyly hiding her face. Three gentlemen traveling together were not likely to be set upon by footpads or highwaymen at least, nor were they.

The Sheepwalk was a ramshackle medieval inn surrounded by tall trees of an undistinguishable sort. The ancient brickwork below changed into beams and plaster above, topped by sagging thatch.

Prance knew by the racket emanating from the door even before it was opened that the inn was not the sort of place he would find congenial. He almost regretted his rash offer to come, until he remembered that tonight he was Baron Wolfried, dashing master spy, afraid of nothing. The place was even worse than Black had intimated. It reeked of ale, cheap tobacco, unwashed bodies and worse. The clientele was certainly composed of cutthroat highwaymen, smugglers and horse thieves. None of them, to judge by the Anglo-Saxon curses ringing in his ears, were French.

Black looked all around, shook his head to indicate their quarry was not in the room, and headed to a table in a dark corner. A plump tavern maid came up to them at once. “Have yez ate?”
she asked.

“Just pints all around,”
Black said.

When she returned with the drinks, he said, “Is Tess in tonight?”

“She’s working t’other end of the room. They could use more help around here. We’re run off our feet.”

“Ah, I see her now,”
Black said.

He watched a pert redhead in a mobcap as she ran from table to table, carrying trays and warding off lecherous advances on her person with a practised swipe of her hand. After a few tries, he caught her eye and beckoned her forward.

“Why if it ain’t Mr. Black,”
she said. “Couldn’t keep away from us, eh, Blackie? Sold many
Bibles
lately?”
Her leering eye and mocking tone implied the Bibles were not the usual sort.

“Business is flourishing, Tess. I see the same goes for this place.”

“Lord, yes. And not a decent tipper in the place. Say, that reminds me, them Frenchies you was asking about, them that you thought might want one of your special Bibles, they’ve been back.”

“Are they here tonight?”

“Not yet, but they come here the last two nights, just about this time. You want I should tell them you’re here, or did you get your brandy elsewheres?”

He gave her a sly wink, slid a silver coin along the table and said, “No need to tell them. I’d like to surprise them.”

The sharp look she gave Black suggested she was unhappy with the size of the tip, but she snapped the coin up fast enough and slid it into the pocket of her apron.

“Shame on you, Black,”
Prance rallied. “I fancy I don’t have to ask what sort of Bibles you planned to show to the Frenchies.”

“I needed some excuse to be asking about them,”
he replied blandly.

“I thought brandy was the excuse.”

“Wanting brandy ain’t a job. Here I’m a dealer in special Bibles and like my tipple when I’m at home.”

Coffen listened, frowning. “Is it hard to get hold of a French Bible in England?”

“Not particularly,”
Prance said. “One can procure one from any purveyor of pornography, eh Black?”

“Pornography?”
Coffen cried. “Don’t that mean dirty pictures? Black, I hope you ain’t making a mockery of the Bible!”

“His Bibles are not Bibles,”
Prance explained.

“You might have called them something else then. Nursery rhymes or some such.”

“You’re right, Mr. Pattle. It was thoughtless of me.”

“Sullying the good name of the holiest book in the world,”
Coffen grumbled. “It’s the most unheard of thing I ever heard of. I’m ashamed of you. What would Lady Luten say?”

“You mustn’t tell her!”
Black cried.

“I wouldn’t sully her ears with such filth.”

Prance nudged Black’s elbow. “Tess is squinting at you. Is that your French customers?”

Tess tossed her head toward the door, and Black nodded back to signal he’d seen them. It was the three Frenchies she’d described to him earlier, to judge by their appearance. The fat, older one would be the leader, Alphonse, the other two would be Henri and Guy.

“I don’t see Eric Martin there. What do we do?”
Prance asked. “They haven’t seen us.”

“If we could get close to them, we might overhear something interesting,”
Coffen said.

“Not much chance of that. There’s no empty table nearby,”
Black pointed out. “If we just wait unseen, they might be joined by Martin.”

“Right, we’ll watch and wait a while,”
Coffen said.

The three men sat on the far side of the room and ordered ale from Tess. Their frequent glances towards the door suggested they were indeed waiting for someone. They never glanced within a right angle of the dark corner where the three were watching them. After a while, Alphonse raised his hand, ordered another round of drinks, then arose and left.