The committee in charge of refreshments for the Orphans’ Ball met in Corinne’s salon the next morning to finalize plans for the fast approaching ball. The wine had been attended to, but tickets were moving so quickly they had to arrange with Gunter’s to enlarge the order of sweets. The important matter of how many more petits fours, mille feuilles and crèmes glacées to order managed to take up nearly two hours, most of which, of course, was spent in the taking of tea and the enjoyment of gossip.
“I didn’t see you and Luten at Lady Alderley’s rout party last night, Lady Luten,” Miss Addison said, with an arch, questioning smile. “Dare we hope you are increasing?”
“I’m afraid not yet,” Corinne replied.
“I hear Mrs. Morgrave is in the family way. She is so happy. I hope it won’t deter her from helping us again next year?”
“Oh I’m sure it won’t. In fact, she’s been such a help I think we should invite her to join the committee next year. I have sounded her out and she is definitely interested.”
“By all mean,” Lady Haversham said. “We need more youngsters like you and Samantha to take over. I, for one, am growing too old for all the running around.”
The others agreed. “Then I’ll tell her this afternoon,” Corinne said. It made an excellent excuse to call on Samantha again. She felt certain Morgrave was innocent and had decided exactly how she could prove it, if indeed he was innocent.
Black decided that since he was now a member of the Berkeley Brigade it was time for a new jacket. He did not quite dare to go to Weston, even though he would be riding in Luten’s dandy black carriage. Unfortunately, he chose Stultz, who was famous for his padded shoulders and nipped waists. Black’s shoulders were in no need of broadening, but his waist could use a little minimizing. He was seduced by the glitter of brass into ordering buttons of a diameter that would stand Prance’s hair on end.
In the afternoon he returned to the stable of Ned Sparks, where he was highly gratified to find Smoker, now sporting only a small blaze on his forehead and two white stockings. “This is a good looking prad,” he said to Ned, running his hands down the horse’s ankles to confirm the altered texture where the henna had been applied. The henna dye was a pretty good match but not good enough to fool his practised eye. They’d ought to have finished it off with a little oil, which would have softened the hair and made the dyed spots a tad darker. With Ned watching he didn’t use the bleach, or have to.
“This one wasn’t here yesterday, was he?”
“That come in late this morning. I’ll have no trouble getting rid of Long Acre.”
“Long Acre? That’s a funny name for a nag,” Black said.
“It is. Hardly a name to be proud of either, but you can call him what you like.”
“You wouldn’t have come by Long Acre in any questionable way, now would you, Ned? I wouldn’t want to be hauled down and have a charge laid against me while riding on Rotten Row.” He laughed to show Ned he was joking, but he knew why Smoker wore this name. It was where he had been stolen.
“Not a chance, Mr. Harper,” Ned said, using the name Black had chosen for the transaction.
“Where did you get him?”
“A fellow called Martin. A young buck. He had lost at cards and needed the blunt.”
“John Martin? I think I know him. A tall, good looking fellow, well built?”
“I didn’t get the first name, but that sounds like him.”
“What are you asking for him? Now don’t try to con me. I know Martin. I’ll ask him what you paid him.”
Sparks wasn’t fooled by this old trick. “I paid three-fifty, and a bargain if I say so myself.”
“Ho, three-fifty! A bargain for Martin. You must take me for a Johnny Raw. I doubt you paid two hundred.”
“Three fifty’s the price. I’ll have no trouble getting it.”
“You’ll have trouble getting it from me. What else can you show me?” he asked and strolled along to another stall to conceal any particular interest in Smoker.
“I have a dandy filly, Lady Luck.”
“You showed me Lady Luck yesterday. Has she suddenly recovered from that knock-kneed gait? I told you, I’m after a gelding.”
After considerable haggling and denigrating Smoker and every other horse in the stable, Black paid three hundred pounds in cash and delivered Smoker home behind Luten’s carriage. He took him to Luten’s stable and had the groom scrub away enough of the henna to show the original markings.
* * * *
At ten o’clock Coffen took a hackney to call on McRaney, and was fortunate to find him at home. He had just arisen and was wearing a handsome blue robe.
“You’re an early bird,” McRaney said. “Come on in, Pattle. I’m just making coffee. I had to let my man go. I’m looking after myself till next quarter day. I expect you’re here about Bolton. Any luck in finding the bounder who killed him?”
“Not really,” Coffen said. “Morgrave doesn’t seem to be working out. What I was wondering is if I was mistaken about what he wrote. That mor, you remember.”
“Yes, I thought about it after you left, but I can’t think of anyone else with those letters that Bolton knew. Of course we weren’t what you could call bosom bows.”
“But what I mean is, maybe it wasn’t mor. Maybe it was nor, or mar — some other letters that look like mor, if you see what I mean. His writing was unsteady, as you can imagine.”
“A wonder he could write at all. The man was a hero, that’s all. Well, let me think. I’ll just get the coffee and we can be comfortable.”
McRaney disappeared and soon returned with the coffee. They sat in the drawing room. McRaney frowned and rubbed his forehead and shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help, Pattle. The only name I can think of is Martin. There was a fellow called Martin that stopped here at my place a few weeks ago asking if I happened to know where he could get hold of Bolton, so I assume they were acquainted. The reason I remember his name, I have cousins called Martin. I asked him if he was any relation to them, but he didn’t know them at all.”
“That’s dandy, McRaney. That might be a big help. You didn’t catch his first name?”
“It was Eric, which is funny, because one of my Martin cousins is called Eric.”
“But it wasn’t your cousin?”
“Oh no, my cousin Eric is an older man, a grandfather, in fact. This was a younger fellow.”
“Tall, well-built fellow?”
“Why yes, he was tall with a good set of shoulders on him. What they call a Corinthian. A real athletic build. Kind of a swaggerer. He didn’t look like a murdering sort. Do you think he’s your man?”
“It’s possible. I don’t suppose he left an address where Bolton could find him?”
“No, I asked him as he seemed so eager to find Bolton. He said he was only in town for a visit.”
Coffen left, satisfied.
In the afternoon Coffen and Prance went to Arthur’s club and spent an hour drinking wine and talking to various members. They were about to leave when Morgrave stepped in. They didn’t approach him immediately, but kept an eye on him. When he left one group, Prance advanced toward him.
“Ah, good day, Morgrave,” he said.
“Prance, nice to see you again. The good wife kicked me out. She’s having a meeting with Lady Luten and didn’t want me cluttering up the place. Truth to tell, I’ve heard enough of the big ball the ladies are planning. I see you’re recovering from that beating. Your nose is hardly purple at all.”
“Yes, I’m on the mend, but my ribs still ache when I twist. What I really regret about that wretched business is that I lost my grandfather’s watch. Oh and my purse. I hadn’t much money in it, but it was a pretty little thing. I designed it myself and had it made up, with my family crest. Three lions passant, gold on sable.”
“That’s a pity,” Morgrave said, with every look of sincerity. “Was there much money in it?”
“Ten pounds.”
“It could be worse. I daresay you can have another purse made up.”
“I certainly shall do that.”
“Care to share a bottle?” Morgrave asked.
Prance had discovered what he came to discover. “Another time. I’m due for an appointment with Murray, my publisher. Nice chatting to you.”
He gathered up Coffen and they left.
“Did you find out?” Coffen asked.
“I certainly did! He denied any knowledge of my purse. At least he didn’t bat an eye when I described it. Just said I could have another one made up. Luten is right, Coffen. Morgrave’s our man.
Like Black, Prance and Coffen, Corinne made a discovery that afternoon that pleased her.