Murder Is Come Again Read Free

crack. Three small holes in the door suggested a door knocker had been removed.
    “Vandals hereabouts?” Coffen asked, pointing to the missing knocker.
    “No, ‘twas Bolger took the knocker off.   He didn’t like being disturbed.”
    “Sounds like a dashed hermit.”
    Weir ignored this and said, “You won’t find many second stories in this part of town. Just these few newer houses. Shall we go in?”
    He thrust a large key into the lock. The door opened with a squawk and Weir led them inside. The expected odour of stale air and worse did not assail their nostrils. “You’ll see all is snug and dry,” Weir told him, pointing carefully to avoid calling attention to the watermarks around the windows. “Some of the places nearer the water are full of mold and rot. Damaging to the plaster, mold.”
    The place had the usual rooms — drawing room, dining room, a study and a small back room that had been set up as a kitchen with four bedchambers above. All had been furnished at some time within the past twenty or thirty years with cheap pieces. The drawing room had some aspirations to style in the way of a fireplace with a carved mantelpiece, fancy plasterwork on the ceiling and a chandelier whose crystals hadn’t been polished in decades.
    Weir pointed to a smeared brown spot on the floor in the middle of the carpetless room, shook his head and said, “That spot right there is where Mr. Bolger drew his last breath, Mr. Pattle.”
    Black, glancing down, said, “That looks like a blood stain.”
    “It is. The carpet was bloodied. I had it taken away so as not to upset Mr. Pattle. It was beyond recovery, and threadbare in any case. Mrs. Beazely ought to have washed up the blood. I’ll have to speak to her. She’s getting on, poor soul. She’s the one notified me the next morning when she found Mr. Bolger dead on the floor. His burial orders were in his will, and I took care of that as you were so long in answering my letter notifying you, Mr. Pattle.”
    Black usually took charge of Mr. Pattle’s mail, but they had been extremely busy at the time in a case that involved both a robbery at Luten’s house and a murder. The letter said only that Mr. Cyrus Bolger had passed away and left Mr. Pattle a house in Brighton and Mr. Weir looked forward to seeing Mr. Pattle at his earliest convenience. Coffen had put the visit off as he was planning to come to Brighton soon.
    The story of Bolger’s sad death did not increase Coffen’s desire to inhabit the house. He had assumed it would not be located in a slum, and that it would be on the water or at least have a sea view. Mr. Weir spoke on of possible improvements to the house, but as Coffen had already decided to sell the place, he took little interest in it. Black, who had some familiarity with a lack of grandeur, took a keener interest.
    Black’s past was a mystery, but whatever it was, it had left him with a wide knowledge of the lower classes and particularly the criminal element. He had been hired by Lord deCoventry a dozen or more years before, and on his deathbed deCoventry had told Corinne that Black was to be her butler, and that he could be trusted to look after her interests. He had more than fulfilled his duties, even saving her life on one occasion. He had been so helpful to the Berkeley Brigade in various cases that Luten had made him a member of the elite group.
    He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair and a swarthy complexion. The kind of fellow you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. He was a good man to have at your side during a brawl. His physical prowess had been as much help to the Berkeley Brigade as his knowledge of the criminal classes.
    “Well, thankee, Mr. Weir,” Coffen said. “I believe we’ve seen enough.”
    “We’ve not looked at the cellars,” Black objected, looking about for a door. He found it in the kitchen, got a lamp and headed down.
    Weir said, “I shan’t go below, if you don’t mind. My legs