To Mourn a Murder Read Free

outside." Where, hopefully, it had been seen and recognized by jealous passersby. "Where does Lady Jergen live?"
    "On Grosvenor Square. I'll give your coachman the directions."
    Byron shivered as they walked out to the rig. "One has to wonder what ever made our forefathers think this was a suitable climate to live in. Eleven months of winter and a few weeks of thaw in July that we jokingly call summer. It's my theory that only the mentally deficient who didn't know enough to continue south a few hundred miles set up housekeeping here. I shall head back to warmer climes as soon as I get my affairs in order. You should come with me, Prance. You'd love Italy and Greece."
    Prance expressed the keenest interest. He luxuriated in a cloud of rapture as they proceeded through the streets to Grosvenor Square. He would begin brushing up on his Italian grammar that very night. Or perhaps he should work on his Greek. The carriage stopped in front of a mansion much like its neighbours–brown brick in the Palladian style with white pilasters and a fan-lit door bearing a shining brass stirrup knocker.
    The door opened at the first tap and a butler wearing a scowl like a Methodist minister at an orgy admitted them. Lady Jergen was waiting for them in front of a blazing grate in her private parlour. She rose from a striped sofa when they entered and rushed to Byron with her two hands out to welcome him. While she gushed her thanks, Prance studied her. The dame was not far from forty, and looked every one of her years. Her figure went beyond fulsome to border on fat. A man would be hard up to lose his head over this ripe Venus.
    Mind you, she still held some remnants of beauty in her big dark eyes and full cheeks. That tousle of curls was better suited to a younger lady but at lest it was still dark brown with no sign of silver. A lady of her size ought not to wear yellow and green stripes, especially when she sat on a puce and cream striped sofa, but the gown was of good material and well cut.
    "This is the gentleman I mentioned last evening, Sir Reginald Prance," Byron said and completed the introduction. Prance bowed, the hostess curtsied.
    "But of course," she smiled. "One sees Sir Reginald everywhere. I can't think how we haven't become friends. I believe we both very nearly attended a weekend at Middleton last spring. I'm sure Lady Jersey said you and Luten were to come, but you were off with your chums solving crimes, I daresay." She gave his fingers a squeeze. "So kind of you to come."
    They sat around the blazing grate while Lady Jergen babbled out her dilemma. Much sifting was required to separate the story from the diversions. "I married young, you know," she began, which threatened a long tale. "Truth to tell, I didn't care for Jergen in the least when first he offered for me. I was rather in love with my drawing master at the time, but of course Mama soon put a stop to that. Mine was that sorry thing, a marriage of convenience, though whom it was convenient for other than my parents I'm sure I don't know.
    "Jergen didn't find it at all convenient to have a sulking wife and I didn't find it convenient to live with a positive ogre. But that was when I was young and foolish. Now I realize he's just like all my friends' husbands, but at least he is away a good deal of the time. Jergen works in the Foreign Office, you know."
    "Sir Reginald is interested in hearing about the missing letters," Byron said, to cut her tale short.
    "Yes, dear Byron, I am just coming to that but I wouldn't want Sir Reginald to think I'm a loose woman. Mr. Brunei was the only one I actually had an affair with, and as Jergen was carrying on scandalously with an actress at the time, I don't see why he should complain but you may be sure he will if he discovers my little romp is costing me five thousand pounds. I should like to know how much he spent on Rose Sommers that year at Brighton. She was a cheap little ingénue in a play there."
    "How damaging are Mr.