Murder Is Come Again Read Free Page A

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    “I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Weir,” Coffen said. “I believe I’ll be selling the place. It don’t suit me.”
    “Just as you wish, Mr. Pattle. I’ll be happy to handle the sale for you. You know where to find me.” He hobbled out the door and into the Brithelmston, where he usually spent a good many hours of his day. He lived in rooms above the tavern and in lieu of rent handled the frequent cases brought against the establishment.
    Black soon came up from the cellar. “All’s cozy and snug below,” he said. “Your uncle stored his brandy down there. There’s a nearly full keg. You’ll want to salvage that before you sell.”
    “I was expecting something better than this,” Coffen said, looking all around with disdain. “I should have known Bolger wouldn’t have a decent roof over his head.”
    “As the old gaffer said, it’s a good, solid house. It could be fixed up again,” Black said. “You’ll have noticed someone’s been living here right along.”
    “He’s only been dead three weeks.”
    “There’s fresh orange rinds in the kitchen, and that journal in the front room is only two days old.”
    “Must’ve been squatters,” Coffen said.
    “That’s possible, but the place has good locks and the windows are intact. Not knowing what sort of man this Weir is, it’s possible he was renting the place and shoved the renter out when he heard you were coming.”
    “You have the mind of a crook, Black. No offence. I can’t be bothered trying to fix the place up. I’ll sell it for what I can get, and let Weir have the job of showing it to prospective customers.”
    “I’ll do that for you, Mr. Pattle. No point paying him a commission for what we can do ourselves.” They both knew that the commission would be paid to Black rather than Weir, but Coffen had no objection to that. Like deCoventry, he liked and trusted Black. Whatever he got, he earned. He had already cut the cost of running his London house in half, and it was run a hundred times better to boot. “Thing to do, write up an advert for the journals tonight and I’ll deliver it for you.”
    “Good man. Have replies sent to the Royal Crescent. We’ll make appointments. We’d best be getting back. We’re dining at Luten’s place tonight.”
    Corinne had included Black in the invitation as it was to be only an intimate dinner party. Black’s status as butler/friend made social occasions a trifle difficult. He fully realized this and showed no offence when he had to be left out. In fact he often invented an excuse and declined an invitation if he felt his presence would be remarked upon.
    “I’ll see that Raven has things ready,” Black said.
    Raven, Coffen’s valet, was so afraid of losing his position that he had also appointed himself Black’s valet. All was in readiness at the Royal Crescent. The two friends, for Black was as much friend as butler, enjoyed a glass of wine before making their toilettes for the evening. Coffen and Prance had chosen the Royal Crescent as it was an excellent hotel not far from Luten’s house on Marine Parade. They met in the lobby and walked to Luten’s, with the fresh sea air blowing over them. Gulls soared and dove and screeched in their endless search for food.
    Prance took a deep breath and said, “This was a marvelous idea, to come here. I feel invigorated already. No writing for me while I’m here, though Murray is after me for another book.”
    “I’m looking forward to your next one,” Coffen said. “I read your last one all the way through. I liked it much better than —”
    Literary success had made Prance generous. He smiled, unoffended. “Better than my Round Table Rondeaux,” he said. “Yes, I fear poetry is not my strong suit.”
    “It was all them footnotes, and leaving out Guinevere and calling King Arthur a duck bell, or whatever it was,” Coffen said in a forgiving way. “Other than that and the dullness, it was fine.”
    “That’s dux