Murder Is Come Again by Joan Smith Page A

complimented her, when they left. “I didn’t notice the flowers. From Sir Reginald’s bouquet, are they?”
    “They looked like it, not that we can prove it.”
    “She never batted an eye when you twitted her. Very likely the rat catcher sold them to old Meg.”
    “What a bold hussy she is. I wouldn’t trust that smug grin an inch. She knows perfectly well Pattle has been arrested. She was practically crowing when she asked after him.”
    “I agree, but I don’t see what we can do about it till we find some hard evidence.”
    “We’ll find it,” Corinne said. “Let us go home and see if Luten is back yet.”
    They hadn’t long to wait. Luten brought Coffen straight to Marine Parade, where Black, watching from the window, rushed to the door to greet him. He was welcomed like a hero returning from the Peninsular Wars.
    “Any luck at the mews?” Luten asked Corinne. She just shook her head.
    “I can have my curricle back,” Coffen said, when the racket had settled down, “but I ain’t supposed to leave town or get into any trouble. I intend to go with you to quiz Weir and search my house and talk to Beazely. Let Brown try to stop me!”
    “We are going to go over that cottage with a fine tooth comb as well,” Luten said. “But first we’ll have that word with Weir and see if we can discover what the hidden treasure is.”
    Prance arrived before they left and had to be informed what was going on. The Lutens went with him in his carriage. As Corinne had been missing out on all the excitement she insisted on accompanying them. Black went on ahead with Coffen in the curricle. They were thus in the line of fire when someone took a shot at Coffen as he wended his way through the Lanes. He was an easy target, seated in the open curricle. Fortunately the shot missed and just lifted his hat from his head. Black hollered, “Duck!” and they both ducked. The second shot went well over their heads.
    Coffen’s team reared up in distress and he had the devil of a time quieting them down. When no further shots were fired, Black leapt down and tried to give chase on foot, but the miscreant was long gone. There was little chance of finding him in that disreputable labyrinth known as the Lanes.
    The employed members of the neighbourhood were out fishing. Although there was still plenty of life about — drunks, children, women sitting on doorsteps gossiping, dogs and especially cats, they did not appear to take the shots seriously. The men capable of answering just shrugged. One woman sitting on the doorstep smoking a pipe pointed one way, the slattern with her pointed the other. It was obviously futile and possibly dangerous to give chase.
    Prance’s rig caught up with them. The occupants hadn’t seen the attack or heard the bullet and were curious to learn what had happened.
    “Someone tried to kill Mr. Pattle, that’s what,” Black said and uttered a curse unknown even to Prance, who made a study of profanity, though he seldom used it. Coffen’s hat with a knick in the brim was produced to show how close the shot had come.
    “Let us get into Prance’s rig,” Corinne said. “You’re a sitting duck in that open rig, Coffen.” They all piled in for a quick discussion. “Let us go home,” she said. “They’re not after Black. He’ll be safe driving the curricle. You don’t mind, Black?”
    “I was just about to suggest it myself,” said Black. He enjoyed getting the reins of the high steppers between his fingers.
    “Home?” Coffen objected. “Devil take it, I’m going to see Weir if it kills me.”
    “It just might do that,” Prance pointed out. “I wonder how Henry assuming Henry is the assassin manqué —knew you would be passing this way. He must be following you.”
    “What’s a monkey got to do with it?” Coffen asked and was ignored.
    “It seemed to me he was in place, hiding and just waiting,” Black said.
    “It was Henry,” Corrine said. “You told Flora you were going to meet