Let's Talk of Murder Read Online Free Page B

served him,” Coffen said. Prance ignored this shot.
    “Would you care for wine?” Luten asked.
    “Tea will be fine, thank you.” He rose to take his cup, then lifted his coat tails and perched daintily on the arm of a sofa. “So, what is our next step, folks?”
    “We must follow up this missing Fogg business,” Luten said.
    Coffen rubbed his ear and said, “Strange to think of a Fogg being missing in London. There’s usually nothing but. Do you want me to have a word with Townsend, or will you summon him here and talk to him yourself, Luten?”
    Townsend was the most famous of the Bow Street officers who policed London. He was often used by the government to accompany the mail coaches when large sums of money had to be transported. The aristocracy also hired him to safeguard their guests’ jewels at their balls during the Season. It was said he had taken more thieves than the rest of the Bow Street officers together.
    “I have a good mind to have myself hauled into my carriage and go down to Bow Street,” Luten said.
    A rattle of the door knocker brought them all to attention. Seconds later Evans appeared at the doorway. “Officer Townsend of Bow Street would like a word with you, your lordship.”
    The assembled group exchanged a startled look. “Send him in,” Luten said.
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Chapter 4
    A stout little fellow wearing a flaxen wig, kerseymere breeches and a blue jacket of a peculiar, square cut came pouncing into the saloon. He was known to them all from former doings. Officer Townsend bowed all around, making a particularly fine leg to Lady deCoventry, before accepting a chair.
    “Well now, what do you make of this mess, eh?” he said to the group, shaking his head in consternation.
    “What mess are you referring to, Townsend?” Luten inquired.
    “Why to be sure, the murder of young Fogg.”
    “Fogg has been murdered!” Prance cried. Luten shot him a quelling glance.
    Seeing it, Townsend smiled quietly. “Aye, Henry Fogg. There’s no need for us to spar with each other, folks. I know all about the business at Manchester Square last night.”
    “Who told you?” Coffen asked, in his usual blunt way.
    “My inquiries led me to discover it,” he replied. “A word with Fogg’s cousin, Lady Hertford, after his untimely demise soon brought the whole sad tale out. At least there is one ray of sunlight in it. The attempt was not on the prince’s life. Her ladyship was much relieved.”
    Luten knew some expression of joy, or at least relief, was expected but his feeling was one of irreparable loss, almost of having been robbed at having the brass ring dangled before his eyes, then snatched away so rudely. It galled to give up his hope of the Prime Ministership. “We can’t be certain of that,” he said.
    “I grant you there is one chance in a million we’re dealing with two assassins,” Townsend allowed, “but the details don’t suggest it. Fogg’s murder was no random affair of footpads or such, you must know. He was hunted down in his own rooms at the Albany within hours of the first attempt. Common sense says he was the intended victim of the first shot.”
    Coffen sat like a dog watching a bone. “The assassin must have been in a great rush, to take a shot when the prince was there. When did you find out about it?” he asked.
    “Seven this a.m., when young Fogg’s servant arrived to begin his duties. The coroner says Fogg had been dead for five or six hours. No suspicion falls on the servant. Her ladyship recommended the fellow and vouches for him. He doesn’t live in and has an alibi besides. There was no break-in. Fogg had shared a glass of wine with someone, someone he must have mistaken for a friend.”
    “A funny hour for a caller,” Coffen mentioned. “Pretty late, I mean, after he left Manchester Square.”
    “ ‘Twas,” Townsend agreed, “but these young bucks think nothing of drinking till dawn.”
    “How was he killed?” Corinne asked in a small voice.
    “Shot in