Murder on Charing Cross Road Read Free Page A

the street to his lonely vigil. Since she was out for the evening, he’d continue reading Sir Reginald’s novel, which she had been kind enough to lend him. It was surprisingly good, if a bit creepy to read alone in a house at night. Gave him goosebumps.
    * * * *
    Meanwhile Sir Reginald was making a grande toilette to attend a party he would never reach. His butler, Villier, was hard pressed to come up with a toilette that was dashing enough to turn heads while still adhering to the gothic mode his master now favored. A step too far and he would look as if he were attending a funeral. They compromised on a black jacket, severely arranged white cravat with a dark amethyst pin and of course the cape and slouch hat. To his delight, Prance had already seen three similar capes and one hat about town. It had always been his dream to come up with a new sartorial style. He was in perfect humour with his little world when he left home that evening.
     

Chapter Three
     
    Prance had not yet gotten around to changing his carriage. He was uncertain just what sort of carriage a gothic hero would drive. It must be black, of course, with perhaps a black team drawing it instead of his bays. Deep in the throes of this problem, he stood a moment, imagining how the new carriage and team would look. Unfortunately, that combination was fit only for a funeral. Would a team of greys do? He would have to consult with Villier.
    Meanwhile, it was a perfect April night, clear and cloudless with a slim wedge of moon silvering the neighbourhood. He didn’t even glance at the post-boy who held the door open for him, or notice that his groom ' s shoulders were inches wider than when last seen. His thoughts were all directed inward, until the jostling of the carriage over the rough roadway became too tumultuous to ignore.
    Glancing out the window, he saw not the stately mansions of Grosvenor Square with footmen holding torches to light the guests’way from their carriages, but a row of mean hovels. What the devil was going on? Pelkey had taken the wrong route and become lost. But Pelkey would never make such a monstrous error.
    He gave the drawstring a sharp yank. The carriage drew to a halt and he sat waiting for the post-boy to get down and open the door, to make explanations and apologies. As soon as he saw the masked face at the door he knew having taken the wrong route was not his only problem. Something was dreadfully amiss. The masked man wore his livery, but the jacket was ill-fitting. And the man was not alone either. Another masked man hopped down from the driver’s perch and loomed up in front of him. A huge bruiser of a man he was, squeezed into Pelkey’s jacket that hung open in front.
    His heart began thumping wildly in his chest. Prance was averse to physical violence, especially when directed against himself. He assumed they were footpads, but how the deuce had they got hold of his rig, and where were his own servants?
    “Here is my purse, gentlemen,”he said, trying to sound friendly and not afraid, though his shaking voice betrayed him. He regretted the loss of the purse more than the money in it. He had designed the purse himself and had it decorated with his family crest —three lions passant, gold on sable.
    The man at the door snatched the purse and grabbed his extended hand. “No need for roughness, gentlemen,”Prance chided. The bruiser yanked, and Prance landed in a heap at his feet. The next five minutes were pure, undiluted horror, worse than his worst nightmare. The man pulled him up by his cape collar, clenched his large paw into a fist and landed him a facer that sent him sprawling again. Blood spurted from his nose, his eyes refused to focus. The attacker looming above him seemed to have multiplied into two or three men, all of them scowling at him over a black mask.
    The smaller fellow began ransacking his pockets, then jumped into his carriage and proceeded to tear it apart. He rifled the side pockets, took out