by Edith Layton
Will bit back words that would tell her how she was more right than she knew. His first impulse had been to defend the viscount. That was new for him, and that was not good for his investigation. He firmly quashed his sympathies, and looked at the lady with polite inquiry.
“Tell them, Arthur,” his mother commanded.
“I was out for the evening,” Arthur explained, “going to a supper room. I wanted to be among people, you see, but didn’t care to wish my mood on anyone I knew. Well, but I wasn’t even good company for myself. I was going to Offley’s, you know where it is, Maldon. Maldon can tell you, Mama, it’s quite respectable really, even if it is in Covent Garden. A fellow in mourning can go there without setting anyone’s back up. It’s not a theater or anything like. They do have singing, sometimes, along with the food, which is plain, but good. I hoped it might cheer me up. The streets were crowded, so I was waiting on the curb for a chance to cross over. I suppose I was distracted, thinking about so many dismal things. But I felt two hands on my back, and before I knew it I was on my knees in the street. Luckily, the hackney stopped in time….”
“Show them!” his mother interrupted.
Arthur drew back the blanket with slightly shaking hands to show his tightly knitted pantaloons torn at both knees. The knees that poked through were scraped and reddened. A moment later, he twitched the blanket back, his youthful face pink with embarrassment. “There’s only a scuff or two,” he said apologetically. “It only stings. I oughtn’t to be upset. But I suppose I am, if only because I’ve been thinking about what could have happened if that driver hadn’t been watchful. Now I’m wondering why it happened. First Uncle. Now me. But why?”
“What time was this?” Will asked, his dark eyes locked on Arthur.
“Around seven, I can’t say. I didn’t look at my watch…”
“Are there any witnesses?” Will asked.
“Yes, yes, I did remember about that,” Arthur said, fumbling in his pocket. “I got the name and the direction of the hackney driver, he was so shaken, poor fellow. And a Mr. Greenwood, who happened to be passing by and came to my assistance. Here’s his address. But neither saw who pushed me. I asked. I went straight home. I confess I wouldn’t have told Mama,” he added sheepishly, avoiding Lucian’s eyes, “but my valet did. She insisted I come here immediately so she could reassure herself.”
“Without changing your britches?” Will asked, his eyebrows high.
“I sent to him not to do so,” the dowager said. “I wanted to see all, and have the authorities see it too. I believe you call that ‘evidence’?”
“I actually had to put them back on,” Arthur said with an embarrassed shrug.
“Someone is after the men of my family,” the dowager said angrily, sitting up straight, her hands clenched. “First my brother, now my son. Even Lucian is not safe. That is to say, if he doesn’t manage to break his own neck first. I grant my brother behaved foolishly in going where he did, when he did, for whatever reasons he did so. But this puts an entirely different complexion on the matter of his death, does it not, Mr. Corby?”
“Aye, it would, if it’s not the young gentleman’s purse someone was after and not his life,” Will said, pocketing the papers Arthur gave him. “The streets in that district are crowded of an evening, my lady. It could have just been some bungnippers at work.”
“What?”
“Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” Will said sweetly. “Thieves cant and not a word I’d use in front of a lady like yourself, but I’m not used to speaking in front of the gentry, do you see? I was speaking of pickpockets. See, they usually work in threes. There’s the file, who does the forking, a bulker, whose job it is to push the mark—in this case, Mr. Arthur here. And then there’s the adam tiler, he’s the cully what flies with the goods before the pigeon can sing. That’s three for the show—one to distract, and I guess there ain’t a better distraction than shoving a fellow on his face, is there? One to nab, and one to snag the prize and flee.”
“I’m not such a flat as that, Mr. Corby,” Arthur said reproachfully. “I looked right off. But my wallet was untouched.”
“P’raps they were a bit too eager,” Will shrugged. “Only meant to make you stumble, but pushed too hard, then cut line before someone could sing beef on them.” He cast a glance over to the viscount to see what he thought of his sudden descent into the sort of slang the dowager seemed to expect of him.
The man had been very quiet. One look showed Will why. Lucian’s face was deathly white, his high forehead was dewed with moisture, his long eyes half closed against his pain.
Will stood, putting his notebook away. “I think that’s all we can do tonight. I’ll follow the matter further, tomorrow. Do you remember more, or hear or see anything unusual, let me know at once. My lord, I’m done here now. Are you leaving as well? It’s grown very late.”
Lucian heard Will’s voice as though from afar, through an overlay of humming in his ears. He looked around the room and saw Arthur watching him with puzzlement. His mother frowned as she studied him. He shook himself, and managed to drag himself to a standing position. “Indeed, Mr. Corby is right. It is very late, and I find myself exhausted. Tomorrow, then.”
He strode to the door, holding himself erect as he could, thinking only, one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, until he got into his coach again. Then he sank back. “Lord,” he said with a soft groan. “I thought I might have to stay in that chair all night, and think of a reason why in the morning.”
“Any reason you don’t want them to know what happened to you tonight?”
“Any reason they should?” Lucian asked as answer. “They’re frightened enough as it is. As am I. I can’t wait to get home.”
Will frowned. That didn’t sound like the Viscount Maldon he had come to know. Perhaps he didn’t know the man that well after all. Or maybe the man was more in pain than he looked to be, though that was hard to imagine.
But the moment the carriage drew up at his door, the viscount was out of it and up his front step as though nothing was bothering him but a pebble in his boot. “Come along,” he told Will as he went into the house. He made straight for his study, and motioned Will to a chair. “I won’t be a moment,” he muttered, taking out a sheet of paper. “Then, we must talk.”
Lucian swiftly wrote one note, took another sheet and dashed off another. Will waited, relaxing in the unaccustomed comfort. The room was luxurious as every other one in this house. The fire in the spacious hearth made it pleasantly warm, the furniture was old…no, his own furniture was old, Will thought. The value of each item here made “antique” a better word, he decided without envy. Because it was about as far from his life as a room on the moon would be. The pop and crackle of the fire and the scratch of the viscount’s quill were the only sounds to intrude on the quiet night until he put down his pen, and rang for a servant.
“These must go out at once,” Lucian told his butler when he arrived. “Send to the stables, and have someone who is a swift, sure rider set out at first light. If some daring lad wants to go sooner, I’ll make it worth his while. Speed is of the essence. Have him come back and tell me when it was delivered. It will take a day at least, both ways, please give him money for the journey. Thank you. Oh, blast,” he muttered, one hand to his head. “Mr. Clower,” he called to the butler, “a moment more, if you please.”
He wrote out two more notes, and handed them to the butler. “There’s no such immediacy about these. But they are to go out in the morning. Please see to it, will you?”
“Of course, my lord,” the butler said.
When he left, Lucian relaxed at last. He loosened his neckcloth, and then with a muffled oath, unwound it and pulled it off entirely. He lay his head against the high wooden back of his chair. All the frantic tension that had kept him upright was gone. He looked drained, but easier in his mind. Will looked his question at him.
“A note to my son’s headmaster,” Lucian explaine
d softly, closing his eyes, “instructing him to keep the boy close, under his observation at all times, and not allow him any visitors. I said there might be a problem with someone who had a grudge against the family. He’s a wise man, he’ll be careful. Another note told Nick to be on his guard until I wrote to tell him otherwise. I feared he might revolt against being so restrained if I did not. He’s a steady lad. But he has spirit. After what I wrote, I don’t doubt he’ll find the mystery more intriguing than frightening, and hold to my directions.”
“So that was what you were afraid of,” Will exclaimed, almost with relief.
Lucian opened his good eye and tilted his swollen mouth in a smile. “My dear Mr. Corby, that is the only thing I am afraid of, now or ever. …That, and of wearing the wrong jacket, or a coat that is out of style, of course,” he added in a burlesqued drawl.
“And the other two notes?”
“To my sisters,” Lucian sighed. “The two that are still in London. My mother can inform the others, and doubtless will do. But they’re back in the countryside now, and so I doubt in any imminent danger. I also doubt anyone will disturb the two who are here, but I had to be sure they knew at once, one never knows…”
He pulled himself up, and the eye Will could see stared back at him gravely. “My Mama was right about one thing. This puts a different complexion on everything, does it not?”
Will shook his head. “It might have been coincidence.”
Lucian raised a brow. “You might as well say snow in winter is a coincidence, Mr. Corby.”
“Who is your heir, my lord?” Will asked, not denying it.
“Nicholas, of course.”
“After him?”
Lucian frowned. “Arthur… Ah. I anticipate you. After him? To tell the truth, I don’t know, precisely. I should, of course. But I don’t consider myself to be tottering on the brink of the grave—or at least, I didn’t until tonight. I’m not as involved with lineage as perhaps I ought to be. All I know is that I seem to have enough family. Sometimes, too much. I’ll have to ask Mother, or work it out myself, on paper. My sisters have been astonishingly fruitful. My nephews however, have not fascinated me, nor have my cousins. I’ll find out the precise order of succession. But tonight I’m not up to it.”
He opened his good eye. “Still…come to think on, that strains credulity, Mr. Corby. Why kill Uncle, and then me, and then Arthur too? To what purpose? Inheritance? No, that would be a sequence of killings that would surely alert the authorities. You can’t dispose of a man’s entire line so easily. The Tudors and Plantagenets had to go to war to try to do it and even they were not successful. No. Were that so, I’d be looking for a nobleman and a madman both. And in the family. Not that it is inconceivable, mind. It’s just that the madmen in our family tend to be eccentric rather than lethal.
“Perhaps it is a grudge against the Name. But this is not fourteenth century Florence, and as I said, we are not exactly de Medicis. At least, there’s no stain of blood insult I ever heard of.” Lucian’s hands fisted on the arms of his chair. “We must know more, Mr. Corby. We must.”
“Your brother’s accident wasn’t far from where yours was. The times weren’t that far apart, either. I’ll talk to the witnesses, those your brother gave me and those I find. And find them I will. It might’ve been the same fellow that did it. And I remind you, it might have only been a drunken gent, at that. Someone out for mischief. Don’t look at me like that, my lord. Your set have odd ideas of amusement. What about the way fashionable young blades delight in harassing the Watch, eh?
“Now there’s a sport I don’t understand any better than your Mama understands prize fighters,” Will mused. “After all, how much of a lark is it to terrify some poor old pensioner? And him only trying to put bread in his mouth by sitting up in a little wooden booth all night, with barely room to scratch his leg without sticking it outside. There he sits, pinching himself to stay awake and on the lookout for crime or danger in his street. Which is a rare old jest. Because if he finds it, he has only his rattle to sound the alarm, because he’s too old to fight and usually too toothless to shout. Why would anyone think it a treat to sneak up behind and tip the box over with the poor old cove in it? Yet it’s so popular a sport they even named it. ‘Boxing the Watch.’ Aye, box him all right. Tip his box over and watch him scurry to get himself out before his lantern sets the thing ablaze with him in it. And then beat him soundly when he does crawl out.”
Will’s handsome face was set in an ugly sneer. “And what of the habit your young gentlemen have of setting on any young female alone in the night and raping her in a train, because if she were to be respected she’d not be alone? Or if she were alone and charging for it, it wouldn’t be as much fun? No, I don’t understand. So pushing the gentry into the street might just be a new sport.”
“Like slashing a horse so it will trample a man crossing the street?” Lucian asked. “And pushing his brother into the street in front of an oncoming carriage? After murdering their uncle outright? All in the same month? No. I agree the ideas of recreation enjoyed by some of the gentry needs improving. But I think there’s a pattern here. We have to think of every possible connection. And we know so few.” His forehead creased with the ache of his wounds and his thoughts. “There’s James, of course. I can’t get him out of my mind. He’ll be coming into money. But perhaps not fast enough?”
“It’s also possible your uncle may have had connections we don’t know about,” Will said. “Then there are his servants, the tradesmen he dealt with, friends…”
“…Romans and countrymen, I know,” Lucian said wearily. “Or rather, don’t know. But first, oughtn’t we weed out those we do? Wasn’t it Mrs. Pushkin who said that murder begins at home? So I’m coming to believe. On that head—there’s Lieutenant Pascal. I think we must hear what Louisa suddenly wants to tell our little mermaid. We’ll call on her at her fish shop tomorrow. She’s a saucy piece but clever and certainly willing to help. No, eager. Didn’t she ask to be included in the inquiry?”
“You no longer think Mrs. Pushkin is involved herself?”
“Well, and if she is, who better to speak to now?”
Both men fell still, each thinking about all the possibilities involved with dealing with the red-headed fishmonger again.
“I’ll take her to Louisa’s house myself tomorrow, I think,” Lucian finally said. “I’ll tell Lousia a tale about how I looked up the widow’s direction, found her, and chose to simply deliver her while I was at it.”
“You? Tomorrow? My lord, better say, next week, I think.”
Lucian opened both eyes, although only one obeyed him. His face was set and cold. His voice came out stronger, his head rose high. He seemed to be looking at Will down that impressive nose of his. It would have been more intimidating if it weren’t the only thing on his face that wasn’t bruised or battered.
“I think tomorrow, Mr. Corby. Didn’t you say we had to make inquiries at brothels as well? Or have you changed your mind?”
“No, but someone changed your face, and your body tonight. Be reasonable. You’re in no condition to go sleuthing right now.”
“No, not right now,” Lucian agreed, “but tomorrow? Yes. Expect me at Bow Street, as agreed. We must get moving. Tomorrow, I will be able to move myself. I guarantee it.”
He sat with the hauteur of a gentleman born. In spite of his battered face and utter pallor, his expression was intense, his eye wild with light. It might have been fever, Will thought. But in that moment the runner believed that there wasn’t even an infection that would dare defy the man’s will.
“We must get on with things,” Lucian said again. “Rumors, hints innuendoes, we have to investigate each one. It doesn’t matter how remote the possibility, we have to go on. We must discover what’s happening, Mr. Corby. No one else must die.’
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Will growled, thinking of the hangman, and the unknown villain he yearned to deliver to him.
Chapt
er Thirteen
“I’m late,” Will said. “Do you think you could spit out what you have for me? Playing at being coy don’t up the price.”
“I never thought it would,” the slender young man said genially, “but though I hesitate to mention this, Mr. Corby, you have not named a price at all. And since my merchandise is merely words, I’d be an out and out flat if I uttered them without some assurance as to their worth, wouldn’t I? Some snuff? It’s my own blend,” he said, taking a gold and enamel snuffbox from his pocket and offering it to the runner.
Will let out an audible sigh. They sat in the corner of a tavern not far from Bow Street, huddled over their morning ale. The man he sat with was neatly dressed, almost a gentleman—to the untrained eye. His neckcloth was white, high and intricately folded, his breeches were blue superfine. But his jacket, while well cut, did not bear the stamp of any of the great tailors of London. And his gleaming top boots were not made to his feet. He spoke like a gentleman too. He was about as far from one as a man could get.
He lived by his wits, which were considerable. He could speak like gentry and reason like a barrow monger, and liked to describe himself as a man who sold items for persons who had acquired them in interesting ways. The only reason Will sighed now instead of barking at him was that he reminded him of another young man he’d once known, a long time ago.
For that reason Will restrained himself. “No, thank you,” he said, refusing the snuff. “Sneezing ain’t a mark of quality in my book. Nor do I care about being took for such. As for you…I hope for your sake the damned thing hasn’t got initials on it. You sail close to the wind. I’d hate to have to see you dangling in the sheriff’s picture frame. You’re an agile lad, but once you learn the Tyburn trot you never get a chance to dance it again. The price of your information is the same as always. Now, tell me.”
The young man made a face. “But it’s worth more, surely. The reward for the cully who done for the gentry cove you found on the fishmonger’s doorstep is princely, you know.”