Murder's Sad Tale Read Free

had a deep, unworthy wish to make this latest opus a thundering success not only with the ton and critics, but with the masses. Naturally he must accomplish this without sinking into the tired old clichés of Mrs. Radcliffe and her hidden panels and secrets lurking behind black curtains and such foolishness. He hoped to get Byron to write an introduction explaining the genesis of the novel.
    “I believe I saw Reg’s curtain twitch,” Coffen said as he gave Corinne a push into the carriage. “If he’s not working, he’ll be sore as a gumboil to miss out on this. P’raps we should call him.”
    “He takes forever to primp himself when he goes out,” she said with an air of impatience. “Let us get it over with. My modiste is coming this afternoon to fit me for a new gown.”
    “True, and besides he won’t care much when there’s no fine lords and ladies involved. He prefers high class murders. Likely as not he’s in there having some evil lord murder Lady what’s her name as we speak.” He gave the drawstring a yank and the carriage drew away.
    They found Miss Fenwick’s address with no difficulty. It was a respectable but not quite elegant three story brick apartment building fronting on North Audley. The notice board told them Miss Fenwick lived on the first story. A butler answered the door, which added an unexpected touch of class to the establishment. After running a cold eye over Pattle’s coat, he seemed disinclined to announce the callers to Miss Fenwick.
    “Madam is in mourning,” he said. “May I know the nature of--"
    Corinne stepped forward, lifted an imperious eyebrow and said, “We have come with a message from Lord Luten. It is rather important. I believe Miss Fenwick will want to see us — Lady deCoventry and Mr. Pattle.”
    He bowed and left, returning in a moment in a chastened mood to take their outerwear and show them into a small drawing room whose aspirations to elegance, like Corinne’s toilette, were defeated by clutter. A surfeit of bibelots littered the tabletops. Paintings, mostly inferior landscapes, covered the walls. The few good, older pieces of furniture were overpowered by the new sofa and three chairs, all in blue, as were the drapes and the pattern in the carpet. “A dandy room,” Coffen said in a loud whisper to Corinne.
    Miss Fenwick came fluttering to the doorway to greet them. It was difficult at first to see what she looked like for the lace-edged handkerchief held to her eyes. Coffen, however, had no difficulty observing her figure. A nice ripe lady, well-marbled, just as he liked his women and beefsteak. And a shiny blue dress that made no secret of her shape. Hard to tell whether the hair was red or blonde — sort of a mixture, with curls piled high on her head.
    “So kind of you to come,” she sniffled. “I was informed by a friend from the whist club that Mrs. Ballard would speak to you. Please do have a seat. So very upsetting about poor dear James. Who would do such a horrid thing? And me without a decent black gown to my name.”
    They sat down and Miss Fenwick rang for wine. She sniffled and tucked the handkerchief up her sleeve, revealing a plump, pretty face with blue eyes the same shade as the drapes, sofa and chairs. No trace of tears was to be seen in the eyes.
     Coffen’s opinion of their hostess rose higher when he saw the plate of macaroons that accompanied the wine. His breakfast had consisted of a piece of charred bread and a cup of tepid tea with no milk. When the refreshments had been served, she took a deep breath and said, “What can I tell you to help find the villain who murdered my dear James?”
    “Begin by telling us what you know about him,” Corinne suggested in a businesslike tone, to forestall another bout with the handkerchief.
    Miss Fenwick was made of sterner stuff than that. “He was the finest gentleman I ever knew,” she said categorically. “And anything you hear from others is merely jealousy. He was not a