The group assembled in Luten’s study at nine the next morning were all tired and frustrated, and looked it. Corinne was angry as a hornet besides. She knew perfectly well by the way Luten kept shuffling papers on his desk to avoid looking at her that he was hiding something from her.
The pale faces and bleary eyes of Black and Coffen suggested they’d spent the night drinking. Even Prance’s toilette lacked its usual lustre. The folds in his cravat were not as crisp as usual and — was it possible — Villier had failed to brush off his jacket? That looked amazingly like lint on his shoulders. Evans’ arrival with coffee was more than welcome.
“Has anyone a suggestion as to what we might do today?” Luten asked, when they had been served and Evans took his reluctant departure.
“Me and Black went around to the place Henri and Guy were living after we left here last night,” Coffen said, and reported the meeting with Townsend. “I plan to go back today and get into the room, see if I can find any clues.”
The case had been sadly lacking in the kind of clues he liked. Tangible clues like notes or a button torn from a jacket or even horse droppings, to show a horse had recently been someplace it shouldn’t. Other than the clue poor Bolton had left with his blood, there was nothing of that sort. You’d think one of the Frenchies would have dropped something other than his black touque during that fracas at Long Acre.
“Won’t Townsend have searched it already?” Luten asked.
“Could be, but he hadn’t been in, and what he said was that he was leaving men to follow the Frenchies when they leave. No harm to run along and have a look, eh?”
“Yes, we’ll try anything and everything,” Luten agreed. Then he turned to Prance. “Reg?”
“I’m willing to do anything you say, Luten. I confess my mind is curiously empty of inspiration. The whole case is so nebulous. We have a name and a description of Martin, but no face, no body. He seems to be everywhere and nowhere. He always knows what we’re doing, yet we’ve failed to catch so much as a glimpse of him. Most frustrating.”
“So you have nothing to suggest? If you think of anything, go ahead and do it, but leave word with Evans so we’ll know where to get in touch with you if it should be necessary.”
Corinne jerked to attention. “Why might you need him? What are your plans for the morning, Luten?”
“I have to go to the House for an important meeting.” This at least was true, even if it wasn’t the sort of meeting his listeners imagined. To clinch it he said, “There is still a war going on.”
She had to be satisfied with that. The war did seem to be reaching one of its critical stages again. It seemed Boney was trying to round up another army in Paris. Perhaps that was why Luten was so worried lately. “Is there anything you want me to do?” she asked.
He wanted to say, “Yes, keep out of trouble!” but knew this was worse than useless. “Perhaps you could accompany Prance in whatever he decides to do.” He had a pretty good idea Prance would go on the strut on Bond Street again to see if he was being followed. No harm would come to her in broad daylight on Bond Street. Luten not only loved his wife but also admired her spirit. It was no small part of what attracted him to her, but it was also a constant source of anxiety.
Black racked his brain for some way to distinguish himself, but in the end said, “I might as well tag along with Mr. Pattle.”
Luten, Coffen and Black soon left. Under Black’s urgings, Coffen had taken the decision to use his own carriage with Fitz on the driver’s seat. “I’ll give him directions even an idiot could follow,” Black said. “What’s the point of having the expense of a carriage if you never use it, Mr. Pattle? You’ve got to train your servants. You’re entirely too soft with them.”
“You’re right and I know it, Black, but when I try to make things better, they seem to get worse. Fitz just drives faster in the wrong direction.”
* * * *
Luten drove directly to Whitehall. The Duke of York, Commander in Chief of the British forces, met daily with his team at the Horse Guards to discuss the progress of the war. Victory against Bonaparte was now within their grasp and the mood was optimistic. The Russian Cossacks had already driven the French out of Berlin, last month the King of Prussia had formally joined the fray against Napoleon, adding a hundred thousand men to Prussia’s standing army and Austria was being drawn into the net. True, Napoleon was still in Paris busy raising troops but victory was in sight.
The meeting did not formally begin until York himself entered the room, but his staff arrived early to plot and gossip and in some cases doze.
Luten knew Eric Martin was someone who had access to York’s secrets. Hopley was sure York’s men themselves were not the culprits, that it was probably a secretary or aide of one of the group. Luten timed his visit before York’s arrival, when various secretaries and aides darted in and out, ears no doubt on the stretch to hear what was said. He stopped and spoke to Harley, using the pretext of asking whether he had heard from Townsend that three French spies had been arrested the night before. Harley, of course, knew nothing about it and demanded details.
Luten placed his folder on the desk. “Just a few notes on another matter I’m working on for Grey, but I must remember to take it with me.” Then he gave a verbal account of the arrest of Alphonse, Henri and Guy.
“This is excellent news, Luten. I shall tell York the minute he arrives.”
Luten glanced at his watch and said, “I must dash. I’m late,” and left, leaving his folder behind.
As he left the room, three of the secretaries were in the hallway, talking. Luten noticed that one of them was tall, young, well built, and possibly Eric Martin. Harley came out, calling, “Luten! I say you left your notes behind. You mentioned they’re important.” The three secretaries turned and listened.
“Thank you, Harley.” He leaned closer as if discussing secret matters but pitched his voice so that those nearby could hear. “They’re extremely important plans. It wouldn’t do for them to fall into the wrong hands.”
Then he looked at the listening men, frowned and hurried away, hoping one of them was Martin. He didn’t look behind to see who followed him, but he heard footsteps. He went to his office, shuffled papers for a quarter of an hour, put his pistol in his pocket and left with the folder beneath his arm.
It was not really a good day for walking. The sky was overcast and the breeze off the water was uncomfortably cool, but his plan was to stroll alone along the riverside to lure Martin into coming after him. He was distressed to see how many people took this walk on a rather unpleasant day. He felt Martin would wait until he had him alone. He walked until he was tired, then sat a while on a rock at a stretch of the river’s edge that was little occupied. He wished he had brought a journal to read.
At length it began to rain, just a light sprinkle, but enough to clear the other walkers away. If Martin was going to attack, he’d do it now. After five minutes the rain began coming down in earnest. He had been here an hour, and no sign of Martin. He wasn’t coming. Luten returned to his office and sat, thinking.
His plan had failed, but as he considered it, it wasn’t really very likely that Martin would be one of the men who had heard him speak to Harley.
He’d have to come up with another plan. But where was there a loose end of the tangle to tug? He cast his mind back over the case.
It had begun with the attack on Prance, the search of his and Coffen’s houses, Bolton’s message, his murder and the abbreviated message written in his blood. They had got their first clue from Hopley, that led to the Sheepwalk. The Frenchies had been there, but had left.
Then there was the clue — a false one, unfortunately — from McRaney. This had led to wasting a good deal of time on Morgrave and the fiasco at the spinney. McRaney had then suggested that perhaps the man they were looking for was Martin. Ned Sparks had confirmed it and led them back to the Sheepwalk, where the Frenchies were expecting them. Either Ned Sparks had tipped them off, or more likely Martin had given Ned the information on purpose to further humiliate them.
It seemed that Martin knew what they were going to do before they did it. Planting Prance’s purse in Morgrave’s pocket pretty well proved it. But how could he have been watching all of them all the time? Neither Coffen, Black nor Prance had seen anyone following them, nor had he seen anyone himself, and he’d kept a pretty sharp eye out. But if they weren’t being watched closely, then how did Martin always seem to know what they were doing?
It soon occurred to him that it was McRaney who had put them on to both Morgrave and Martin. He didn’t have to watch the members of the Berkeley Brigade. He only had to watch Morgrave and he’d know what was afoot. And he had been at Arthur’s the day Prance’s purse was found in Morgrave’s pocket. He lived in the same building as Bolton, and no one had been seen calling on Bolton. Easy for him to slip down a staircase or along a hall and do the job. If it was McRaney, how was he getting the information to send to France?
They hadn’t investigated McRaney at all! How had he overlooked such a glaring clue? McRaney didn’t have to work at the Horse Guards himself. He could have a friend passing along secrets, either wittingly or unwittingly. The thing to do was to investigate McRaney at once.