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up with the felicitous phrase.
    She glanced up and smiled. “Come in, Reg. We have a new case and you are just the man to help us.”
    He had been hoping someone would notice the Vortex and even more had been looking forward to talking about his novel, but when she appealed to him in this manner, he was putty in her hands.
    Coffen snorted. “He won’t care for it. No princes or kings. Not even a lord or lady.”
    Prance ignored this truth, that made him appear a climber, which he certainly was not. He just happened to prefer a civilized lack and gentlemen murderers. He wafted into the room. “Tell me all,” he said, and lifting his coattails, he perched on the arm of her chair.
    Luten outlined the case, with frequent interruptions and additions from Coffen. In truth, Prance found the whole thing amazingly dull. An aging spinster from Manchester and a gazetted fortune hunter from God alone knew where. There seemed very little possibility of drawing his friend and idol, Lord Byron, into it either. As it was Mrs. Ballard who had sought their help, however, they obviously meant to have a go.
    “Pray, how did you imagine I could be of help in this?” he asked, biting his tongue on the words “tawdry affair” that leapt to mind.
    “You wasn’t listening,” Coffen said. “Art, music, plays — that’s your line of goods. You ever hear of this Russell fellow? James Russell.”
    “The name rings no bells, sorry.”
    “You could ask your chums,” Coffen pointed out.
    “I shall mention it, certainly. What did he do for a living? Was he connected with a theater or museum or gallery? That might help.”
    Coffen said, “He didn’t work. Miss Fenwick was put out when we asked. Said he was a gentleman.”
    “And living in an unkempt flat. No visible means of support, in other words,” Prance sniffed. “What does he look like?”
    Strangely, this hadn’t occurred to them. Prance shook his head at such a blatant omission.
    “Call Mrs. Ballard. She’ll know,” Luten suggested.
    “I’ll go ask her,” Corinne said. She well knew how Mrs. Ballard disliked to have to sit with her friends. She was soon back with the description. “Tall, dark and handsome,” she reported. “No moles or scars, no special oddities of dress. In his mid-forties.”
    “That could be anyone,” Prance said with a shrug. “Well, any one of hundreds, or thousands. What does the word ‘handsome’ mean to a spinster from Manchester? A picture would help.”
    “It seems Miss Fenwick has one,” Corinne said. “He gave her an ivory miniature for her birthday. I daresay she won’t want to part with it. She treasures her little tokens from him, but at least we could see it.”
    “Would it be possible for Mrs. Ballard to borrow it?” Prance asked. He had no interest in paying a call on the commoner himself.
    “I’ll ask her,” Corinne said.
    Coffen, who had continued rooting through his batch of papers, said, “Here’s something.” He arose from the little desk in the corner and brought the bit of paper to their unofficial leader, Luten, though Coffen did most of the actual investigating himself, and loved every minute of it. “A note,” he explained to the others.
    “What does it say?” Corinne asked, peering over Luten’s shoulder to read it aloud. “Tonight, ten o’clock at Green Park. Bring it with you.” She looked all around to see what they made of this curt missive.
    “It’s in a lady’s hand,” Luten said.
    Prance reached out and took the little slip of paper. “That spidery writing does have a feminine air about it.” He sniffed the paper. “No scent.”
    Coffen scowled. “What do you mean, no sense? It’s plain as day he went to meet her at Green Park and she shot him.”
    “What I said was ‘no scent’,” Prance explained with weary patience. “No smell, in other words.”
    “It smells pretty fishy to me,” Coffen insisted.
    “It isn’t even dated,” Prance pointed out. “The appointment might