A hasty, unscheduled meeting of the Berkeley Brigade took place in Luten’s smaller, more intimate rose salon that evening before dinner. The little group would have been lost in the large gold salon that was only used for formal occasions.
Luten hardly had time to remove his greatcoat before Coffen was at the door. When Prance was informed by his ever-alert Soames that Coffen had gone in, he decided to throw courtesy to the wind, for in the usual way he would not be so gauche as to visit so soon before dinner, and join them. After a careful perusal of the street to see it was safe, he went out alone. After all, a spy had to take some chances. Villier stood on guard at the window with his pistol cocked to see he made it next door to Luten’s unmolested.
His arrival made a very satisfactory stir. Corinne’s “Reggie, you shouldn’t be out, mingled with Luten’s, “What — you here, Reg?” Coffen just stared in confusion. What the devil had got into Reggie? He was certainly playing some new role. That purple nose and limp and eye patch should have kept him out of circulation for a week at least. And he should be moaning and groaning, instead of trying to smile and pretend he wasn’t aching all over.
“Can’t let a little bump on the nose put me out of commission, eh?” Prance said in a hearty way. He did, however, allow Corrine to lead him to a well-upholstered chair. “So, what are our plans for this evening?” he asked. “As I mentioned to Pattle, I plan to visit Arthur’s and keep an eye on Morgrave, see just how deep he’s plunging at the gaming table.”
“Do you really think you’re up to it, Reg?” Luten asked, blinking in astonishment.
“Of course I am,” he replied with a carefree laugh. “I’m injured, not dead!”
“I planned to go with him,” Coffen added, “unless you think there’s something else I ought to be doing, Luten.”
“Corinne thinks the Morgraves will attend Lady Harley’s rout party. We plan to go there. What we must do is have someone watch his flat and see that he does go to Harley’s, and where he goes when he leaves.”
Sitting in a cold carriage just watching the flat was no job for an ace spy. “I have one of my men there at the moment,” Prance said. “He’ll have to be relieved soon.”
“I’ll send a footman in my hunting carriage to replace him,” Luten said. This was a black, unmarked carriage used on those occasions when anonymity was required for surveillance. It was Corinne who had christened it the hunting carriage during that period when she and Luten were at odds. In a fit of jealousy, she had claimed Luten used it when he was out hunting for females, and the name stuck.
“Meanwhile I’ve heard from Black,” Luten continued. “He says the Frenchies have deserted the Sheepwalk, which likely means they’ve found a new headquarters. We’ve got to discover their new meeting place. I’ve sent word for Black to return and see if he can find the new spot. I expect following Morgrave is the best way to go about it.”
“Pity he didn’t get a look at the Frenchies,” Prance said.
“He got a description from one of the maids,” Luten said, smiling. “Trust Black not to miss a trick.”
Not only did the estimable Black not miss a trick, he didn’t waste a minute either. As soon as he received Luten’s note, he packed up his bag, hired a hackney and headed for Berkeley Square. In his best dark suit and white cravat, he might almost have been mistaken for a gentleman when he was shown into Luten’s salon by Evans.
“Evening all,” he said, bowing. “I thought I might as well get along home in case there was any other little thing I could do to help out.”
“You can begin by describing the Frenchies to us,” Luten said. As the meeting was taking longer than he had anticipated, he served wine. Black was back where he longed to be, with her, and with the Brigade, being treated like one of them. Evans gave him a wink as he poured Black’s wine, and made sure to fill the glass to the brim.
Black began his report. “There was three of them, according to a lass called Bess and confirmed by the lad who runs the tavern. I made out I was after buying a keg of brandy to give an excuse for asking about the Frenchies. I asked Fletcher, the tavern fellow, to let me know if he heard from them, giving an address of a friend so’s they wouldn’t connect Berkeley Square with the query. Did I mention they do supply a whole string of inns with smuggled brandy?”
“You think of everything, Black,” Lady Luten said with a smile that would warm his evening hours.
“As to their description,” he said, shaking his head in dissatisfaction, “They say they look like typical Frenchies — dark hair, on the swarthy side, two of them youngish, small and wiry, one fat and bald. He’s the ringleader. The small ones are called Guy and Henri, the fat one’s called Alphonse. He smokes cigars that stunk up the whole taproom. The place still reeked of it. I fancy I’d know that smell again if I met it. Awful, it was.”
“Did they speak English at all?” Luten asked.
“Enough to order a meal, but French between themselves. The fat one, Alphonse, had a fair bit of English. I’ve been thinking, what I ought to do tonight is have a word with that friend at the address I gave, in case they try to contact me about the brandy.”
“That’s excellent work, Black,” Luten said, and outlined their evening plans. Black could hardly believe the wonderful turn his fate was taking. He was in, for this case at least. “We’ll be needing someone to keep an eye on Morgrave. I was going to send a footman but you’d do a better job, if you’re interested, Black. You’d best take my unmarked carriage in case you have to follow his rig. You couldn’t keep up with him on foot”
“I’m always eager to help you in any way I can in all in your work, milord,” Black said, thrilled with the notion of the carriage.
“I’ll send for my carriage. You’d best go have a word with that friend whose address you gave for word on the brandy first,” Luten said.
“I’ll let you know at once if I hear from him. Mind you, I consider that only a shot in the dark.”
No discovery of interest to the case was made that evening. Prance’s footman reported that the Morgraves attended Lady Harley’s very dull rout party, stayed until after midnight, at which time Luten and Corinne also left and followed them home. Black reported that Morgrave did not leave the house again that night. Prance and Coffen visited all the clubs in the west end of town in case Morgrave had slipped the marital leash and gone clubbing.
They went from Arthur’s to Brookes’s to White’s Club in search of Morgrave. They were not actually members of White’s, the prestigious Tory stronghold where fortunes were made and lost on a roll of the dice, but were allowed to “just have a peek in to see if a friend, Lord Almquist,” was there. They had no luck there, or at Boodle’s or Wattiers’s, then went on to check out the less distinguished Graham’s and finally back to Arthur’s.
There Coffen met McRaney, and had a few words with him while Prance went to order a bottle of wine. “Are you having any luck in finding Bolton’s killer, Mr. Pattle?” McRaney asked.
“Not what you could call luck, but we’re keeping our eye on Morgrave. You haven’t thought of any other mor that might be involved?”
“I’ve racked my brain, but Morgrave’s the only one I can think of.”
“Have you ever seen him in here? I hear he’s a bit of a gambler.”
“I wouldn’t know him to see him,” McRaney said, “I just heard the name from Harry. I could ask around, if you like. Is it important?”
“I don’t know. Best not to go rousing too much interest by making queries.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, I’d be more than willing. Awful what they did to poor Harry. I must be off now.”
When Prance returned, Coffen told him about the meeting with McRaney. “He’s told us all he knows. If Morgrave’s gambling tonight, it must be at a private party,” Coffen decided.
As they left, Prance asked the doorman if Morgrave was a frequent visitor. “He often drops in during the afternoon,” the man replied. “He’s newlywed, you know, and has to dance attendance on his good lady in the evening.”
“A deep player, is he?”
“They don’t play for large sums here, especially during the day. It’s more just to pass the time with friends. The place to lose big money is White’s or Brookes’s. The lads don’t come here to lose their inheritance, but to have a drink and friendly game.”
Coffen made a mental note of this for further investigation.
Prance enjoyed himself immensely, despite the lack of success in spying. He was greeted with commiseration and astonishment everywhere he went, and had a lovely time making little of the violent attack and his limp and eye patch.
Black, determined to outdo himself, made short work of informing a pick-pocket and former associate called Fingers Freddy that he might be receiving a note addressed to Black, and where to forward it. Fingers was given a guinea and told he’d receive another when and if a note was forwarded to him. Awake on all suits, he refused to name the possible sender of the note, lest Fingers forge a note himself to get the other guinea.
After his meeting with Fingers Freddy, Black had the coachman keep driving around the block while he took up a position in the shadows across the street from Morgrave’s flat. He was standing guard when they returned from the rout. He uttered a wistful sigh to catch a glimpse of her head as Luten’s carriage passed by, shortly behind Morgrave’s. He was able to inform Luten the next morning that Morgrave did not leave the flat again, unless it was after four a.m.