Murder on Charing Cross Road (26 page)

Now where had Coffen said he met McRaney? Room 302, wasn’t it? They went softly, swiftly, up the stairs, Luten and Evans, and along the hall to room 302. The door was closed. Luten tried the knob and learned it was locked. Was he at the wrong door? Was there no one home? Had McRaney already spirited them off to some private spot to kill them? A lady and a gentleman who disliked violence and had broken ribs besides — what hope was there for them against the wily Martin?

He put his ear to the door to listen, and heard a low voice. Prance! By God, it was Prance. Still alive, at least. He banged on the door, and all fell silent within. “Open up!”
he shouted, then lifted his booted foot and kicked the door. When this was of no avail, he kicked frantically at the doorknob until he shattered the lock, and went inside with his pistol in his hand, cocked and ready to fire. Evans came in behind him, silently praying for God’s mercy.

* * * *

“We’ll drop in and see what Reg and Corinne are up to,”
Coffen said, as they drove home. They were surprised when the parlour maid answered the door. “G’day, Mr. Pattle. There’s nobody home. His lordship and Evans have gone pelting off in a great pucker.”

“The devil you say! Gone with Evans? Do you know where they’ve gone?”

“I couldn’t say. Prance said something to Evans before he and her ladyship left, and Evans told his lordship, but with Evans gone —Anyhow Ivy asked Mrs. Ballard what was up, and all
she
knows is that her ladyship and Sir Reginald went to call on a Mr. McRaney. When his lordship heard that, he took Evans with him and went flying off like a man possessed. I’m sure
I
don’t know where they went.”

Black just nodded. She didn’t know where they went. The poor lass couldn’t add two and two. Close to a moonling. Ever mindful of a butler’s duties, he said, “You’d best let Roberts know Evans is gone.”

“If you say so, Mr. Black, but he’s cleaning silver this morning. I didn’t know if I should disturb him. You’re the first ones that have come calling.”

“Certainly you should,”
Black said severely. “A gentleman’s door is never left unattended.”

“Come along, Black,”
Coffen hollered over his shoulder. He was already halfway to his waiting carriage.

Black rushed off after him. “I’d best take the ribbons,”
he said. “This is no time to go astray.”

“I believe you’re right, Black. I’ll get on the box with you. We have to make plans. Fitz, get into the carriage. You can drive us back.”

A chastened Fitz got into the carriage, wondering how long he would be in Mr. Pattle’s employ, now that Black had taken over.

“Luten has learned something,”
Coffen said. “He’s gone after Corinne, certainly. Why would he think she’d be in danger at McRaney’s place?”

“I can’t imagine, Mr. Pattle. Would there have been another murder there, I wonder?”
He cracked the whip and the team went faster, faster, raising the ire of every carriage on the road and every pedestrian who watched the spectacle, cursing the Corinthians who used the public roads for race tracks.

When they reached their destination, they saw Corinne’s and Luten’s carriages standing at the curb and questioned Luten’s driver, who reported that Luten had gone charging into the house with his pistol in his hand, but he had no notion what had put his lordship into such a pelter.

“Room 302 is McRaney’s room,”
Coffen said. They darted in and took the staircase two steps at a time. “Did you bring a pistol, Black? I forgot to grab mine. If I’d been sitting in the carriage instead of on the box I'd have thought of it.”

“I didn’t, Mr. Pattle. Shame on me.”

“Luten has his. Evans as well, I daresay.”

Evans’
presence here was like wormwood to Black. Much good that old fool would be in a brawl. When they reached the doorway, they stood a moment, listening. There wasn’t a sound from within. Black pointed to the door, which was marked with the unmistakable signs of having been kicked repeatedly. The door was slightly ajar, with the wood shattered where the lock had been kicked in. As they stood, looking a question at each other, a shot rang out.

* * * *

“Tie his hands behind his back,”
Henderson ordered Lady Luten, as Prance reluctantly lay down.

“What shall I tie him with?”
she asked, while her mind darted about wildly, looking for a way to rescue them. But with Prance on the floor and the round black muzzle of Henderson’s gun pointed at her face, she could think of nothing but the bullet that would come flying out of it if she made a wrong move.

Henderson looked about the room for something to bind Prance. Seeing nothing suitable, he angrily pulled off his cravat with one hand and threw it at her. The aim of his pistol was diverted for a moment.

Desperation inspired Prance to take the only action he could think of. He reached out, grabbed Henderson by the ankle and pulled as hard as he could, sending him off balance. Before he could get up off the floor, Henderson steadied himself and gave Reggie’s side a sharp kick that set his poor ribs into agonies of pain

“Try that again and you’re a dead man,”
Henderson growled.

Corinne took the cravat and began tying it around Reggie’s wrists, taking care not to tie it too tightly. “Now you, into the bedroom,”
he said to her when the job was done. He pointed the wicked pistol at her and nodded towards a door that led into the bedroom. She went, trembling, into the room, looking about for a weapon, anything she could use to defend herself. Henderson locked the door behind her. She immediately ran to the dresser and searched for a pistol. But it held only his shirts and socks.

Next she ran to the window, planning to open it and holler. It opened on a back alley, with not a soul in sight. Could she climb out and run for help? The window was difficult to raise. She got it up enough to stick her head out, and see it was too far to jump, and there was nothing to give her a foothold on the way down.

In desperation she picked up a boot, the heaviest object she could see, and stood at the door, trembling, listening, waiting. She could hear the low murmur of voices. Perhaps Reg was trying to talk him out of killing them.

Then she heard a loud racket, as if Henderson had lost his temper and was wrecking his own flat. Or had Reg managed to get up? Oh it was impossible! And she couldn’t do a thing but stand by helplessly and listen. And wait. Wait for him to come for her.

Henderson heard the two sets of feet pounding down the hall. That meant two more men to contend with. He could get one as he came in, but the other meanwhile would shoot him. He didn’t panic. He’d been in tight corners before. Without a moment’s hesitation he pulled Reggie up from the floor by his coat collar and used him for a shield.

When Luten stormed in with his pistol raised, he found it was pointing at Reggie, whose face was a mask of terror. He was aware of the form behind Reg and the pistol pointing at himself, but even before looking at the man’s face he looked around the room for Corinne. Thank God she wasn’t here. But where was she? She wasn’t in the carriage. Had she escaped and run for help? Had he already killed her?

Prance knew what he was looking for. “She’s in the bedroom, safe,”
he managed to gasp. He looked past Luten to Evans —
Evans?
Was it  possible he was hallucinating?

The news that Corinne was safe slowed the wild pounding of Luten’s heart, making it possible for him to think rationally. So this was the wily Martin. They were meeting face-to-face at last. He had made fools of them before, and he must be ready for one final trick.

For a moment, the room was deathly quiet, as the two men stood stiff as statues, each pointing a pistol at the other, each trying desperately to figure a way out of the impasse. Henderson could see he was outnumbered. Escaping with his life was the best he could hope for. Luten knew he couldn’t shoot Henderson with Prance standing right in front of him. Prance was obviously in pain. His face was ashen — there was no hope of help from him. He couldn’t expect any help from Evans, standing silent and motionless behind him. He was sorry he’d dragged him into this.

“Pointe non plus, milord,”
Henderson said in a taunting voice. “Stand aside. Let me leave with this creature. I’ll release him unharmed in fifteen minutes providing I’m not followed. Take one step after me, and I shall be obliged to kill him.”

Luten was strongly inclined to mistrust him. But Corinne was in the next room, and if Martin managed to outwit or outshoot him, what might become of her? And poor Prance, looking like a bated animal, with that mute plea in his eyes. He wouldn’t have to give Martin fifteen minutes. He’d watch from the window and see which direction he took, then go after him. Make sure he wasn’t seen, or he’d certainly shoot Prance.

It was the devil of a dilemma. Or he might be able to holler down to his coachman from the window. Was there a window facing the street? And in the end Martin might shoot Prance anyway, for spite.

Henderson, sensing his uncertainty, said, “It’s a fair deal, Luten. You have ten seconds to consider it, then I shoot. I may or may not manage to kill you, but you will most certainly kill Prance if you try to shoot me.”

Without waiting for an answer, he began backing toward the door, keeping Prance between himself and Luten’s pistol. Luten’s mind was in a whirl. Martin couldn’t lock the door behind him. The lock was broken. He’d never get downstairs backwards, while holding Prance in front of him. He’d trip, and that would be his chance to get him.

Henderson edged past Luten and reached to open the door. Two things happened at once. Prance looked up and saw Evans with his pistol taking aim at Henderson’s outstretched arm. Henderson’s attention was all on Luten. Prance caught Evans’s eye, Evans gave a barely perceptible nod of the head. Prance ducked and lunged forward, out of the line of fire. Evans’s pistol roared, the bullet shot out and ripped into Henderson’s shoulder. He released Prance, dropped his pistol and grabbed his shoulder, cursing. Evans picked up the pistol and held one in either hand, both pointed at Henderson.

The room was suddenly ringing with noise. Corinne shouted from the bedroom. “Luten! Luten, are you shot?”
Fists pounded on the door. And as Luten hurried to open it, Coffen and Black darted into the room, looking all about in confusion.

“What the deuce is going on?”
Coffen demanded. “Who shot McRaney?”

Evans cast a sly glance at Black and said, “I’m afraid I’m responsible, Mr. Pattle. He had us at pointe non plus. He was trying to escape, you see. I feared he meant to harm Sir Reginald.”
He then returned to watch guard over the prisoner.

“Escape?”
Coffen demanded. “From Martin, you mean? Was he here?”

“From what I can deduce, he
is
Martin,”
Evans said.

“The devil you say. McRaney is Martin? You mean he’s the spy?”

“That appears to be the gist of it. He locked Lady Luten in the bedroom and had tied up poor Sir Reginald.”

Coffen just shook his head. “And me giving him clues all along. I feel like a fool.”

“He had us all fooled, Mr. Pattle,”
Black consoled him.

“Would somebody kindly release me,”
Prance called in a weak voice. He was leaning against the wall, with his hands still tied behind him.

Black obliged him and led him to the sofa, where he immediately fell into a swoon. Meanwhile Luten had rushed to the bedroom and released his wife. Corinne fell into his arms, babbling senselessly.

“Are you all right, my love?”
he asked, holding her so tightly her ribs ached.

“I thought he had shot you! I heard a shot and — Luten, you really
must
give up this sort of work. I can’t take it.”

“But are you all right, my love? Did he hurt you?”

“He didn’t touch me, except to push me in here and lock the door, and I couldn’t get out the window and I couldn’t find a weapon.”
Then she spotted Reggie laid out on the sofa and said, “Oh Luten! He’s not dead — is he? It’s all my fault. I made him come. Please God he’s not dead!”

“Not unless he died of fright. He wasn’t shot, but he’s in a bad way.”

She reluctantly withdrew from Luten’s arms and darted to Reggie’s side to tend him.

Prance, deciding it was time to be a hero again, opened his eyes and said, “Did you enjoy the visit, my pet? Sorry I was such a poor protector.”

“You were magnificent, Reggie,”
she said, and kissed his fevered brow. That would go into the book! No, better! She would place her fevered lips on his.

Black, bereft of any heroics, found where Henderson kept his drinks and poured them all (except Henderson) a tot of brandy. He served Evans last, and very reluctantly. “Have one yourself, Black,”
Evans said, enjoying the reversal of roles.

“I intend to,”
Black said, and poured himself a generous drink.

Evans lifted his glass and touched it against Black’s. “You missed a good show, Black. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

Black forced a smile and said, “I can hardly wait.”

Conversation was loud and confused as they all tried to explain how they came to be there, and what had happened, and that McRaney was Martin, who was in truth Prance’s old school friend, Henderson. Prance wanted only to get home and let Villier cosset him with scoldings and sympathy and possets. It was hard to enjoy being a hero when you were in such agony.

Coffen summed it up briefly. ‘“All’s well that ends well’, as William says.”
He added aside to Black, “That’s Shakespeare. Prance calls him William. He knows all the good writers by their first names.”

“We’d best get Henderson down to Bow Street,”
Luten said. “You’ll want to come along and receive Townsend’s gratitude, Evans. That was good work. I didn’t realize you were such a marksman. You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel. You saved the day.”

“Happy I could be of assistance, milord,”
Evans said, with a sly glance at Black.

“Yes, jolly lucky shot, Evans,”
Black said with a grim smile.

Luten then invited the group to meet at his house for dinner. “Coffen, you and Black will see Corinne and Prance home?”