Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

  “Come sit,” said Charlotte. “You must be hungry after all your travels.” Notwithstanding the strawberry tarts they had been fed by Jeremy’s cook. “You can both tell me all the details while we eat.”

  Raven’s expression brightened. He crossed to the table, but before taking a seat, he reached into his pocket and fished out a folded piece of paper. “Here’s the letter, m’lady.”

  Both boys watched intently as she cracked the wax wafer and skimmed over its contents.

  “Is it helpful?” asked Raven.

  “Very,” replied Charlotte, exaggerating only a little. She was inordinately fortunate that her friend was willing to pass on information that she could access nowhere else. But she knew she was dancing along a razor’s edge with her questions. Their friendship had been formed in childhood, when his circumstances had been far more humble than they were now. They had formed a strong bond of trust, and had shared secrets. But life had changed for him, and she didn’t want to force him to decide where his true loyalties lay.

  “These letters are important, and I don’t know how I would manage them without you.”

  “S’all right,” mumbled Raven through a mouthful of stew. To his brother he added, “Oiy, mind your manners. No slurping.”

  Charlotte bit back a smile.

  “We can go whenever you need te send one,” continued Raven.

  “Or any other errand,” chirped in Hawk.

  “Thank you.” She passed them both an extra hunk of bread.

  “I almost forgot, we heard more from Skinny about the Runner,” said Hawk, once he had chewed and swallowed his food. “His Nibs—”

  “Lord Wrexford,” corrected Charlotte.

  “Yeah, him—when the Runner was questioning him, there was another cove in the room. His name was Field . . . Field . . .”

  “Shef-field,” finished Raven. “The Runner told Skinny he was a friend of Lord Wrexford.”

  Sheffield. Charlotte made a mental note to ask Jeremy about the earl’s circle of friends. “Did the Runner describe him?”

  Raven repeated what he had heard. Tall, fair-haired—It wasn’t a lot to go on, but Charlotte saw a way to add a new element to her drawing before sending it to the engraver.

  “Oh, and Skinny said one of His Lordship’s servants delivered your print—the one wiv all the blood—while His Nibs was being raked over the coals,” added Hawk.

  That would make a nice touch, she thought wryly. There was just enough room to work it into the drawing before sending it off.

  “And Skinny heard that Lord Wrexford was oogling the ’orrible burns on the reverend’s face.”

  “Ha! The devil admiring his handiwork,” said Raven after spooning up the last mouthful of his stew.

  “We don’t know that he committed the crime,” she pointed out, though the concept of truth likely meant little to the boys. In their world, guilt or innocence was about how fast one could run or how much money one had for bribes.

  The truth was, all signs pointed to Wrexford being the culprit. But pedigree and prestige were dauntingly powerful, as she well knew. The authorities would have to be awfully sure of themselves to arrest him.

  “Cor, you should have seen the body, with all that scorched flesh and putrid color, Hawk.” Raven made a face. “It was disgusting.”

  Intent on changing the subject before it turned too gruesome, Charlotte gathered up the empty bowls and set them down by the wash pail. “If you’re not too tired, would you be willing to take my drawing to the engraver later this evening instead of tomorrow afternoon?”

  She was loath to ask the boys to go out at night. But they often went off on their own, and from what they had told her, the authorities looked to be intensifying their scrutiny of the earl. Come morning, a new print in the shop’s display window would fan the public’s prurient interest. It would sell well, and it was wise to take advantage of such a juicy scandal.

  “Yeah, all right,” agreed Raven with a shrug. “S’no trouble. We were already planning te head that way.”

  She didn’t ask why. Though a part of her yearned to play the mother hen, she knew they wouldn’t thank her for it. The laws of life here were a world away from those of her own childhood, but she had learned to accept them. The choice to cross the boundaries and venture into unknown territory had been a voluntary one.

  There was no going back.

  “Thank you. Just give me a little time to add the extra details.”

  Raven sprawled out on the rag rug by the stove and began toying with a handful of skittles he had pulled from his pocket. Hawk was quick to join him. “Aye, m’lady. We’ll be right here when you need us.”

  * * *

  “Are you saying you saw the Right Reverend Josiah Holworthy here inside the Royal Institution?” demanded Wrexford.

  “Yes,” insisted Drummond. “More than once.”

  The earl thought about the corridor and the fact that the wall sconces were few and far between. “Are you sure? At night the shadows must be nearly black as Hades.”

  The jut of Drummond’s chin rose another notch. “I know what I saw.” A pause. “And heard.”

  All of Wrexford’s senses had now come alert. The reverend had a deep, sonorous voice. It was very recognizable. If what the chemist claimed was true—

  Drummond seemed to read the earl’s thoughts and a self-righteous smile slowly spread over his face. “I’ve heard the reverend preach several times. His oratorical style is unique.”

  “Indeed.” And yet something didn’t ring quite true. “However, if he was here at night, and—as you point out—had no business being here, I doubt he was rattling the walls with his preaching voice.”

  A sharp crack rose from the bubbling crucible, along with a ghostly plume of steam. Drummond flinched.

  “Which means you must have been rather close to him to identify his voice.”

  “I—” The chemist wet his lips. The smile had quickly faded to a petulant pout. “I had every right to investigate when I heard people in the corridor at odd hours. As you see, the theft shows I had every right to fear mischief was afoot.”

  “More than you might think,” murmured Tyler. “You are aware, aren’t you, that the reverend was murdered last night.”

  Drummond gasped, the blood draining from his face.

  Unless the man was a consummate actor, thought Wrexford, the shock was real.

  “Who was with the reverend?” he pressed, hoping to take advantage of the chemist’s rattled nerves.

  Silence hung heavy, the weight of it dampening the soft bubbling of the liquid and the whispery hiss of the spirit lamp.

  “Mr. Drummond?” urged Tyler.

  “As you said, it was dark, and the other man’s voice was muffled,” replied the chemist evasively.

  Wrexford could easily visualize the scenario—the reverend and one of the members of the Institution entering the corridor, Drummond hearing the voices and sneaking out to spy on what was going on....

  Speaking of reptiles and cold-blooded creatures that slithered through the shadows.

  Unwilling to let the chemist wiggle out of his accusations, he pressured the man for an answer. “Yet you must have noticed what laboratory they entered.”

  Drummond hesitated, drawing out the moment with a long exhale before replying, “Mind you, I can’t be entirely certain. But from what I could make out, it was the one belonging to Lord Robert Canaday.”

  Tyler frowned slightly, though Wrexford wasn’t sure why.

  Shifting uncomfortably, Drummond ran a hand through his hair. “That’s all I can tell you. And now, I really must attend to my liquid. The experiment has already been ruined once.”

  The earl decided that they had gotten all they could from the chemist. At least for now. “Thank you for your time. We will leave you to your work.” He turned for the door.

  “You’ll be sure to tell Davy about the seriousness of the theft, and how sinister forces are conspiring to ruin my experiments?” ca
me the whiney question.

  Wrexford responded with a vague wave, his thoughts already preoccupied with what he had just heard.

  Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble. The words from Shakespeare’s Macbeth suddenly popped into his head. The revelations—if true—were interesting. Though whether they would shed any light on the murder was far from clear. There were any number of mundane explanations for why the reverend might have accompanied a friend to the Institution.

  So far, nothing about the murder was making any sense. And as a man of science, that irritated him. “For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble,” he muttered aloud, adding more lines from the scene.

  What malevolent witchcraft was brewing here in London?

  “Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,” responded Tyler, his brows tweaking up in amusement. “You have to agree this has all the ingredients for a corking good play involving mystery, murder, and mayhem.”

  Wrexford grunted. He hadn’t realized that his valet’s skills included an expertise in English literature.

  “So, how do you intend to follow up on this new information?” continued Tyler.

  “I see no reason why I should do anything at all,” snapped Wrexford. “It’s not my responsibility to find Holworthy’s murderer. Let the Runner do his job.” He blew out his breath. “Though judging by his interest in me, he’s likely to make a hash of it.”

  They reached the street and walked on for several minutes in silence. “Why the devil did you bring me here in the first place?” he demanded of his valet. “I’m not sure why you are so afire to have me investigate this murder.”

  “Given your very public quarrel with Holworthy, it’s clear the magistrates at Bow Street have felt compelled to dispatch a Runner to conduct an official investigation of your possible involvement. So it may prove useful to have evidence that corroborates your innocence should things take an unpleasant turn,” pointed out Tyler. “But more to the point, you have been bored of late. And you behave badly when you are bored. An intellectual conundrum always helps you keep your demons at bay.”

  He paused. “Solving this one has the added incentive of avoiding a trial for murder.”

  It was, reflected Wrexford, a confounded nuisance to employ a servant who was so infuriatingly astute.

  “Bah.” He made a face, but had to admit that the meeting had stirred a whole new set of questions. He wasn’t sure he trusted Drummond. But if what he said about Canaday was true . . .

  He hadn’t realized that Canaday’s interest in science was advanced enough to merit a laboratory at the Institution. And given the reverend’s fiery orations against the pursuit of Godless Knowledge, a friendship between him and the baron seemed an odd match.

  Against his better judgment he found himself curious as to what thread tied them together.

  “Shall I flag down a hackney to take us home, milord?” inquired Tyler.

  “You go on,” he replied. “I think I shall first pay a visit to my club.” It might be a waste of time, but he had an idea on where to start.

  As his valet said, the hunt for answers might keep boredom at bay.

  * * *

  The reading room of White’s exuded an aura of masculine comfort. The scent of well-worn leather, aged brandy, and printer’s ink wafted through the fire-warmed air, punctuated by soft snoring and the occasional crackle of newsprint. Sheffield was ensconced in an armchair set near the blazing hearth, sipping a glass of ruby-red port while perusing the latest news from the Peninsula.

  “Who was generous enough to indulge your taste for fine wine?” asked Wrexford as he approached. The bottle on the side table was an expensive vintage.

  “You,” replied his friend without looking up. “I told Jenkins to put it on your tab.”

  Wrexford signaled to the steward to bring another glass. “Dare I hope there’s any left for me?”

  “Naught but the dregs. You had better order another one.”

  He took a seat next to Sheffield and crossed his legs. “What do you know of Lord Robert Canaday?”

  “Other than that he’s a dab hand at cricket and a bit of a toadeater around those of higher rank?” Sheffield pursed his lips. “Hmmm, let me think.”

  “An exhausting task, I know.”

  “Do you wish to hear what else I know?” inquired Sheffield. “Or would you rather vent your ire by insulting me?”

  Wrexford signaled the steward to uncork the fresh bottle of port. The wine was exceedingly good as well as exceedingly expensive. “Beggars can’t be choosy.”

  Sheffield chuckled. “Point taken.” He refilled his glass. “Canaday fancies himself an aesthete. He writes poetry—badly, I’m told—and belongs to an exclusive club whose members consider themselves artists and intellectuals.”

  “Do you know which one?” The description fit any number of smaller societies in Town. The interests were diverse—ranging from music and rare books to history and aeronautics—but what they all had in common was a pretentious preciousness about their own level of taste and discernment.

  He preferred the simple snobbism of White’s and Brooks. It was at least honest.

  Sheffield tapped his fingertips together as he contemplated the earl’s question. “Hmm. It’s something like . . . The Artists.” Tap, tap. “No, wait—The Ancients. It’s called The Ancients.”

  Wrexford had never heard of it. “Any idea who else belongs to it?” he asked.

  “Not a clue,” answered Sheffield. He made a pained grimace. “I’d offer to stop by the Wolf’s Lair this evening and make some inquiries. But I haven’t a feather to fly with, and I can’t very well strike up useful conversations if I’m confined to watching from the shadows.”

  Wrexford knew that despite his friend’s outward nonchalance, it hurt his pride deeply to be kept on such short financial leash by his family. “Tyler tells me I should take the threat of a trial seriously, so you would be doing me a great favor if you would play at the tables tonight and see what you can learn.” Exaggerating a sigh, he passed over a handful of bank notes. “Just remember that, unlike you, I expect a return on my investment.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Forgive me for interrupting your breakfast.” Closing the door behind him, Tyler approached the head of the table. “But I thought you might wish to see this without delay.”

  Wrexford eyed the roll of paper and set down his cup. “I take it A. J. Quill’s pen has not been idle.”

  “No.” The oily bite of fresh ink cut through the aroma of coffee as the valet spread out the print.

  “How the devil . . .” muttered Wrexford.

  “How indeed,” responded Tyler. “It would seem that the artist is as all-present as Satan.”

  “For him to know that Sheffield was present when the Runner was interrogating me, and that we were looking at Quill’s print of the murder . . .” The earl pursed his lips. It would seem there were only two possible explanations. Neither of which were pleasant to contemplate. “The artist must be bribing the Runner.” He looked up. “Or he is bribing you.”

  Tyler met his gaze without twitching a lash. “I shall forget you said that,” he replied. “You never think very clearly before you have your eggs and gammon.”

  Wrexford chuffed a grudging laugh. “Not precisely true. I can on occasion exert myself. But point taken.”

  “By the by, if I needed money,” added his valet, “I’d simply abscond with the family jewel collection that you keep in the safe of your study.”

  “It has an exceedingly complicated German lock.”

  A sniff. “Oh, please.”

  The earl let out another chuckle. “It’s lucky for you that your arsenal of unusual skills proves useful at times.”

  “And for you, milord.”

  “True.” A pause. “I’m quite aware that no one else would tolerate my peculiar sense of humor.”

  “I shall take that as both an apology and an expression
of heartfelt thanks for enduring your irascible moods.”

  “Don’t press your luck.” Wrexford refilled his cup and took a sip. “It must be the cursed Runner who’s selling his secrets.”

  “I think that unlikely,” replied Tyler. “From what I’ve heard, Griffin is the best of the Bow Street lot. He has a reputation for scrupulous honesty. And dogged determination.”

  “Well, in this case, he is barking down the wrong vermin hole.” Leaning back in his chair, he contemplated the ornate painted detailing on the Adam ceiling. Twists and twines. “I really do think it’s about time I paid a visit to A. J. Quill. Any news from your Scottish tracker?”

  Tyler curled a faint smile. “As a matter of fact, sir, he is waiting downstairs in the kitchen.”

  * * *

  Rain pelted against the narrow mullioned window, as if the gods were taking perverse pleasure in echoing the faint thump-thump of foreboding inside her head. No doubt, mused Charlotte, the thought of primitive, pagan forces controlling the universe would be considered blasphemous in civilized London.

  “Civilized—ha!” she whispered. A leading churchman savagely slaughtered, orphans and widows left to fend for themselves in the hardscrabble streets, the ravages of war draining the country’s coffers. “The concepts of charity and kindness to all seem to have gone to hell in a handbasket.”

  Charlotte put down her pen and stared glumly at the drawing she was trying to finish. Prinny’s accusing eyes stared back at her, half hidden in the corpulent folds of flesh she had made for his face. Normally she felt no compunction about skewering the Royals, but a dark mood had taken hold of her this morning, brought on perhaps by seeing the boys head out into the gloom. Raven had said that he wanted to search for more gossip on the Earl of Wrexford and the ongoing murder investigation.

  She hated that they felt compelled to dig up dirt for her.

  But dirt sold her satirical prints. And money put food in their mouths.

  Ergo unum oportet esse pragmaticam.

  “I must be pragmatic,” she repeated aloud, hoping the spoken words might help chase away her malaise.

  A gust of wet wind rattled the glass.