Free Murder Is Come Again by Joan Smith Page A

they assumed Brown had not found it. They removed the bloodied pillowcase and sheet and bundled them up to remove for burning. They wrapped her in the linen sheet and carried her, Black holding her legs, Coffen her head, through the darkness to the waiting carriage. Raucous voices were already issuing from the Brithelmston Tavern, but no one came out. The body was placed on one banquette with Coffen holding the head, the other three gentlemen crowded together on the other side, Prance holding the flowers.
    They met a few carriages and mounted riders on the drive out the busy Dyke Road. When they turned in at the cemetery the crescent moon, the weeping yews etched in black against the silver sky, the tombstones, pale in the moonlight, and the wind soughing through the trees lent an eerie air of menace to the place. No guard was to be seen.
     Coffen was allowed to choose her resting-place. He thought she would like to be near the road, as she liked the scene of action, but common sense told him they might be spotted from the road and he chose a flat tombstone farther in. After Prance arranged the flowers artfully on her breast, Coffen reminded them they were to perform a burial service.
    This sort of thing was a job for Prance, who always enjoyed performing and was seldom at a loss for words. He hadn’t brought the Book of Common Prayer with him on this holiday but ad libbed a creditable substitution of the service. Then Coffen plucked off one white lily and they hastened back to the carriage.
    They returned to Marine Parade where Luten asked Mrs. Partridge to dispose of the soiled linen from Nile Street. When Luten left the kitchen, she said to Partridge, “I’ll try to bleach the blood out. If it stains, I’ll use the material for rags. You can never have too many rags. Where do you figure these came from, Partridge?”
    “I don’t figure they’ve been slaughtering a cow or pig.”
    “It’ll be Brigade business,” she said, satisfied with this vague conclusion.
    Abovestairs, the Berkeley Brigade discussed plans for finding Mary’s killer. As was the custom, Evans had served food and drink. Coffen, Corinne noticed, was not enjoying his usual hearty appetite, but kept fondling a wilted lily, until she passed him the gingerbread, at which time he set the flower aside and took up his fork. She was ravenously hungry herself, and ate heartily. The sea air was giving her a strong appetite.
    “Till we can get hold of Scraggs, we’ll work on Flora and her beau,” Luten said. “You mentioned having a word with Weir, Black, to see if you can get a line on what sort of treasure Bolger might have concealed in the house.”
    “I’ll ask if Flora’s mother ever worked for him as well,” Black said.
    “How about Mrs. Beazely?” Corinne asked. “She might know something as she worked in the house until Bolger’s death.”
    “Weir will know where I can get hold of her,” Black said.
    Luten sat, frowning, then said, “Interesting that Scraggs lives at the Brithelmston Tavern, and this Mad Jack fellow disappears there as well. It seems to be a centre for crime — and it’s within a stone’s throw of Coffen’s house. I wonder if there’s any connection between Scraggs and Mad Jack, and indirectly, Mary Scraggs and Mad Jack.”
    Black said. “Are you thinking Bolger’s treasure might be Mad Jack’s loot, or part of it?”
    “I hardly know what I’m thinking,” Luten admitted, “but it’s a coincidence.”
    “Then there’s bound to be something in it,” said Coffen, who had the greatest mistrust of coincidences when it came to crime. “If that’s the way it is, then Bolger would have known who this Mad Jack fellow is.”
    “It can’t do any harm to get a line on him,” Luten said, lifting an eyebrow in Black’s direction.
    “I’ll try,” Black said, “but the whole world seems blind and deaf and dumb when it comes to Mad Jack.”
    “Try money,” was Coffen’s advice. “I’ll provide