Murder's Sad Tale by Joan Smith

adored the prestige of being a member of the Berkeley Brigade. What if they should drop him? He really should take a day to think through how he was to rescue Lorraine from the evil Lord Malvain. It was the climax of his novel and he wanted it to be superb without straying into the realm of unreality. Coffen would have some down to earth ideas there.
    Prance wanted this book to be a popular sensation, not just something pored over by a few dusty intellectuals at universities like his Round Table Rondeaux, but a book that sat on every table, that was talked about at parties, like Byron’s Childe Harold. His was no heroic tale of derring-do like Byron’s work. It was cosier, its characters a sort of roster of Everyman.
    Lady Lorraine, despite her title, had been raised in a modest manner. The book required an uncommonly subtle treatment of common everyday reality to make it exciting, to stir the reader into caring so much about Lorraine that he was sitting on the edge of his seat, biting his nails. He wrote of what could happen to anyone, and Coffen was the very man to help him with the common touch.
    Bedford was only a day away. He enjoyed travel, stopping at inns and having a stroll through small towns, where the locals always turned to stare at his jackets. The weather was fine for February today, almost spring-like. No snow was in the forecast. He would go with Coffen! That would show them he was as interested in the case as any of them.

Chapter Twelve
     
    “I believe I’ll go with you, Coffen,” Prance said, smiling in anticipation of the thrill he was giving his friend.
    “You needn’t bother, thankee all the same,” Coffen said, with no sign of delight. “I’ll work faster alone.”
    “Two heads are better than one, and two pairs of feet.”
    “There’s no such thing as one head and two pairs of feet, Reg, unless you’re talking about horses or dogs. You and Villier will take the morning to pack. You’d just be a milestone round my neck. I could be halfway there before you decided which jacket to wear. Just get me the picture of Russell and I’ll get on with it.”
    “Don’t be absurd,” Prance said, stung at the slur. He liked his well-planned ensembles to be taken for spur of the moment inspiration. “I’ll be ready before my carriage gets here. You’d best cancel yours and tell Corrie you won’t be needing her groom.”
    Coffen muttered some aspersions and said, “Get a wiggle on, then.” He went next door to tell Corinne the change of plan.
    “Prance going with you? What’s got into him?” Corinne asked. “I thought he looked rather embarrassed when you said you’d go to Bedford, and Luten looked at him, as if waiting for his offer to go with you.”
    “Nothing of the sort. That’d just be biting off his face to save his nose. Reason is, Byron’s sick and ain’t coming to see him. I daresay he’s come a cropper in his book and wants time to think about it. I hope he don’t do his thinking out loud. I’m sick to death of Lady Lorraine and I haven’t seen a single page yet. With luck he’ll stay in his room scribbling once we get there.”
    “His carriage is comfortable at least,” she said to console him. “He’ll have warm bricks for your feet and fur rugs and things to eat and drink while you drive along.”
    “That’s true.” Such amenities did much to alleviate the blight of Prance’s company. Coffen left and the trip began with less delay than he feared. All the promised amenities were in place. Comfortably ensconced in a draught-free, smoothly-running carriage with a team of four and a coachman who knew where he was going, Coffen’s irritation evaporated. Even the dreaded talk of Lady Lorraine took an unexpected but not unwelcome turn.
    “My problem, you see, is that I don’t want her to appear a silly girl, unaware of danger,” Prance explained. “And I don’t want to depend on coincidence — someone chancing along to save her. I have decided she must go to