Coffen darted across the street and informed Luten what he had learned from Prance. “The Honourable John Morgrave is the only name I could get out of Prance. Do you know him?”
“I know his older brother, Viscount Sifton. He’s Lord Norval’s heir. I find it hard to believe any of that family would be mixed up in something like this, but it must be checked out, certainly."
“The wife’s name is Samantha. Any chance Corrie would know her?”
“I believe they’re both on the committee for the Orphans’ Ball,” he said, unhappy to hear his wife being dragged into it. But it would surely come to nothing. The Morgraves were tip of the ton.
“I thought I’d head over to Bolton’s place, sniff around, see if he was friendly with anyone there that might know what he’d been doing lately, or had any callers that fit the description of mor.”
“Do that, but be discreet. Don’t mention Morgrave’s name.”
“I’m just an old friend, looking Bolton up, have no idea he’s dead."
“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.