Murder Is Come Again Read Free Page B

bellorum,” Prance said.
    “That’s exactly what I mean,” said Coffen, as they went up the walk to Luten’s mansion.
     

Chapter Three
     
    Dinner at Luten’s mansion that evening was an altogether more informal affair than in London. In this holiday home the dining room couldn’t seat more than a dozen and the array of crystal and silver was kept at a minimum. The decor, too, was simple, the main attraction of the room being the charming view of the garden behind the house. In spring the roses in full bloom rioted up trellises and over walls. A few modest statues graced the corners of the garden, to be enjoyed from an iron table and chairs placed in the shade of a linden tree.
    The housekeeper and her husband, the Partridges, were the only staff employed on a full-time basis. The Lutens had brought their butler and a few of the London servants with them, but their chef had been given a holiday and the cooking was done by Mrs. Partridge with the help of one kitchen maid. This suited everyone except Prance, who preferred fancier dishes, with the meat — if they must eat dead animals — concealed by sauces and spices. The others, especially Coffen, had no complaint with the plain fare. Coffen was a special pet of Mrs. Partridge. He got his gingerbread with raisins, and was even given a generous slab to take back to his hotel.
    Over dinner they discussed their plans. Prance, who considered eating pig a particularly heinous incivility, piled mashed potatoes on top of a slice of roast pork and said, “I paid a visit to Herr Stoeffel’s workshop this afternoon. Fascinating. I hadn’t realized engraving was such hard labour. I’ll have arms like Gentleman Jackson when I’m through.” He was just as glad no one chose to question him on the work involved. The ten minutes he had spent with Stoeffel were enough to confirm what he had seen in London. Engraving was no work for a gentleman.
    “How did it go with your inheritance, Coffen?” Corinne asked.
    “The house is a mess. Black thinks it’s not too run down to be fixed up. The trouble is it’s in a wretched neighbourhood with a noisy tavern next door. I’m going to sell it, if I can find anyone fool enough to buy it. Black’s handling it for me. We put an advert in the Brighton journals. It should run tomorrow morning.”
    “I hardly know what price Mr. Pattle should ask,” Black said. “Perhaps you’d come and take a look at it, Luten. You’d have a better notion than we would what it’s worth.”
    “Certainly, I’d be happy to,” Luten said at once. “I’ve been curious to see Coffen’s inheritance. Property here in Brighton has increased a good deal since I bought this house. It might be worthwhile to hang on to it, rent it. Property’s a good investment.”
    Black, always on the qui vive for criminal doings, said, “The odd thing is that although Cyrus Bolger’s been dead close to a month, someone’s been living in the house just lately. I was wondering if old Weir had rented it out and pocketed the rent.”
    “If he had posthumous power of attorney, he may have rented it legally, in which case the rent money should have gone to Pattle,” Luten pointed out. “That’s easy enough to find out. Check that statement Weir sent you, Coffen. It suggests, does it not, that the place is rentable?”
    “I daresay I could do that,” Coffen said, though he had no intention of renting it, and wasn’t about to set up a quarrel with old Weir over a few shillings. For that matter, who was to say Weir hadn’t read a journal and eaten an orange there?
    Corinne just shook her head, aware that her husband never liked to see property go out of the family. He had convinced her to hold on to the little house on Berkeley Square that deCoventry had bought for her. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “A woman’s eye will be useful to see what needs doing in the way of cleaning up to make it easier to rent.”
    “We’ll all go,” said Prance. “I’m