Chapter 2: The Black Coach

With the horses recovered we followed the road towards Lord Lane’s residence, then rode down the long sweeping drive which led to Taplow Court.We tethered our horses at the hitching rings and banged on the door. A footman opened the door.”Lord Lane will see you in the study, gentlemen, please follow me,” he said, before I had a chance to speak.
Rob and I exchanged surprised glances, but then followed the man through a large imposing entrance hall to a side corridor. About half way along the man stopped at a door and knocked.
I heard a voice from inside the room say. “Show them in, Stebbings.”
The footman, Stebbings, opened the door and ushered us in.
Lord Lane was sitting behind a large desk and waved us into two straight back chairs placed in front of the desk.

“Bring in some refreshments, Stebbings.” Lane perused us for a moment. “You look like men who would prefer ale rather than wine?” Rob and I nodded, and he continued addressing his man Stebbings. “Fetch in a pin of the Old Peculiar...” He turned back to me. “If you are not in that state when you start to drink the brew you will be when you finish.” He flashed a smile of gold-capped teeth at me. “Well; shall we begin? What do you want to know?”
Rob and I exchanged puzzled looks.

“Err...” I began, “can you tell us where Sigismund von Metzendorf is now?”

“Metzendorf? What the devil has he to do with anything?” It was Lord Lane’s turn to look puzzled. “I expected you to ask how many rooms there are in the house, or if the roof is in good repair – and where is your measuring equipment? Fine pair of surveyors you are if you have not the tools to do a proper job of evaluation with you.”

“We are not surveyors,” I said. “We came for news of Metzendorf, who was last seen at Hungerford a little over two weeks ago, and here at Taplow Court the week before that.” As I was speaking Stebbings had re-entered the room, with a cask of beer under his arm and three tankards dangling from his fingers. He placed the cask on a table, banged in a tap at the bunghole, and filled each tankard with light brown, foaming, ale.

“We seem to be talking at cross-purposes.” Lord Lane said, “Let us drink our ale, and then you can explain your interest in that scoundrel Metzendorf.”
I took a pull at my tankard, and the ale was the best I had supped since partaking of Mister Boddington’s Special Brew in The Grapes at Manchester.

“This is excellent ale, My Lord, where is it brewed?”

“Never mind that ‘My Lord’ nonsense, my name is Rowley, and Old Peculiar is brewed in Marlow at the Three Horseshoes Inn. It is the finest strong ale in the county, probably in the Kingdom.”
Once again half a thought came into my mind. Rob had said something when we were in Marlow which I knew was of importance, but again the thought vanished like smoke before I could recall what he had said.
I realised I had not yet answered Lord Lane – Rowley’s – question as to who we were, as we were not the surveyors he had expected.

“I am Major Elijah Greenaway, and my companion is Robert Crawshay.”
Rowley looked at Rob keenly. “I know you — I never forget a face.” He studied Rob for a long moment, and then declared. “Got it — you are the cab driver who took offence when I turfed those two whores out of your cab. It must have been three or four years ago.”
Rob nodded. “I thought you treated those poor girls abominably, casting them out stark naked on to the marshes beyond Greenwich.”
Rowley gave a roar of laughter. “Those two poor girls, as you call them, were the Andrew Sisters – but they ain’t sisters and their names ain’t Andrew. They got their working name because they prey on sailors, particularly young midshipmen and acting lieutenants, who come ashore with their pockets stuffed with money after their ships are paid off. The girls pick them up at art galleries, concerts, theatres, even churches. They look as if butter would not melt in their mouths – but I can assure you their mouths have ingested much more than butter. The young lads think they have met up with respectable girls who are sweet on sailors, and naturally fancy their chances of getting into their drawers. The ‘sisters’ take the unsuspecting ‘marks’ back to their crib, and during the ensuing fornication the ‘father’ of the girls bursts in, and either blackmails the marks into giving over all the money on them, and then frequent payments to keep mum, or else knock them unconscious and rob them, strip them naked, and then dump them out on Hackney Marshes.”

Rowley took a long swallow of his ale. “Those two robbed and stripped a favourite nephew of mine, and I was returning the compliment. And I did not dump them bare arsed naked. They were still wearing their shoes – and their bonnets.”
He then turned his gaze on me. “Greenaway? Your name, if not your face, is familiar to me – why yes, the fire at Hungerford Hall. My sincere and deepest condolences, sir, but of course nothing I can say will ease your pain a whit – only revenge, which is why you are on the trail of Metzendorf. You suspect he was responsible?”

“He was with those who carried out the crime; if I find him I will find the culprits. However, John Bailey, the magistrate at Hungerford, told us Metzendorf was here three weeks ago at an org, err, function. Surely you will know where he is now?”
Rowley shook his head slowly and sadly. “I am awaiting surveyors to agree a price for the sale of Taplow Court. I am up to my ears in debt, with payments due to physicians, apothecaries, and doctors. Lady Lane has suffered with the wasting sickness for over a year, and has been treated in Bart’s hospital for the last three months. Stebbings and I were in London until two days ago, when my beloved wife passed away.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes with a large spotted handkerchief. “I rented Taplow Court out to Lord Wycombe while I was away in London. It was his function, or to give it proper name, orgy, which Metzendorf attended. Wycombe is really evil; he has tried to summon up demons, and enjoys inflicting pain on young girls, especially virgins.” Rowley looked pained. “I have the reputation of being a lecher, a pervert, and a debaucher, but I swear, on the soul of my dear, departed wife, what I do is always with the consent with whom I do it. Lecherous and perverted I will admit to, and damned pleasurable I find it, but I have never debauched anyone. What use is a complete novice in the art of fornication to me? I want experienced and skilled practitioners.”

“Where will I find Lord Wycombe, My — Rowley? He may have news of the whereabouts of Metzendorf and his accomplice...” I regarded him intently when I dropped the name, “Helen de Troyes.” It was plain from his blank expression he had no idea of whom I spoke.

“The only Helen of Troy I remember was the one I learned about when up at Oxford.” He grimaced. “Not that I was there for very long – got rusticated after a year. It was from then my so-called lecherous and perverted reputation started. I was supposed to have debauched the daughter of one of my professors, when actually I had been rogering the wife of the Vice-Chancellor of the college, and the wives of many other dons. The bastards closed ranks, saved face, and cooked my goose.” He finished his tankard of ale and handed it to Stebbings, who quickly refilled it.

“Wycombe has his residence in Wendover, about twenty miles north of here.”