“No matter. I was anxious to blow a cloud—though a dram of whisky would be even more welcome. The fellow inside is getting rather ripe, which makes stitching him up deucedly difficult.” Henning took another few puffs. “Why the interest in Holworthy’s body? As far as I’ve heard, there is no tangible evidence to tie you to the murder. And the House of Lords isn’t going to hang one of their own based on gossip, no matter how lurid.”
“Let’s just say I’m curious,” answered the earl.
“Auch, just remember, laddie—it’s said that curiosity kills the cat.”
“It’s also said that cats have nine lives.”
“The question,” shot back Henning, “is how many of them have you already used up?”
Wrexford shrugged. “I’m not very good at mathematics.” Which was a lie. In any case, simple addition showed that the ledger added up in favor of the Grim Reaper.
A laugh, short and rough, rumbled in Henning’s throat before giving way to a cough. “I, too, find I’m curious about something. How did you learn that Mrs. Sloane is A. J. Quill? She takes great care to keep her identity a secret.”
“To toss out yet another old adage, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander,” quipped Wrexford. “I merely employed the same tactics of careful observation that she uses.”
“Don’t make trouble for her,” said the surgeon, a note of warning shading the casual comment. “She doesn’t deserve it.”
Henning was hard as Highland granite. That he appeared to have a soft spot for the widow piqued his interest. “How is it that you know her?”
“Her late husband was a patient. His health was fragile—weak lungs, a condition exacerbated by their return to London from the warmer, drier climes of Italy.”
“What made them return?”
“Anthony Sloane was a brilliant artist. He craved recognition for his talents.” Henning tapped his pipe against his boot, sending a shower of burnt ashes over the muddy ground. “But I’ve seen his wife’s paintings. She possesses an even greater talent. I can’t help but wonder if that drove him mad.”
“Mad?” The earl raised his brows. “That sounds rather gothic. Like something out of The Castle of Otranto, what with its clanking chains, supernatural curses, and tortured villains.”
“Aye, well, Sloane’s behavior turned awfully erratic in the weeks before his death. He was always a sensitive soul. Perhaps too sensitive. He started having inexplicable mood swings, uncontrollable tremors, and terrible headaches.” The surgeon’s expression hardened. “I had the feeling that his wife was forced to take on all the responsibilities of running the household and finances as well as to minister to Sloane’s increasingly irrational behavior.”
It wasn’t an uncommon story within the less prosperous parts of London. Hardship seemed to suck the life out of men, while the women found the strength and resilience to survive.
“At the end, he was muttering to me about guilt and shame—about what he wouldn’t say,” went on Henning. “Delusions, no doubt. Indeed, I suspect that he might have deliberately taken too great a dose of laudanum to silence the devils in his head. But I did not say so to Mrs. Sloane.”
Wrexford suspected that if that were true, she would know it without being told. Nor would the damning knowledge crush her.
“She seems a very resourceful woman,” he said aloud. “It was clever of her to think of taking over her husband’s trade.”
“Aye, Mrs. Sloane is sharper than a scalpel. But a hard life hasn’t dulled her elemental kindness. Despite her own straitened circumstances, she comes regularly to my clinic, where she teaches women from the rookeries to read.”
Yet another facet to the widow. Which only made her more of an enigma.
“I wouldn’t have taken her for one of the selfless women who dedicate themselves to doing good works.”
Henning let out a low snort. “She claims it’s not out of simple Christian charity. She believes knowledge is power, and reading is a skill that helps her fellow females fight back against those who would take advantage of them. It’s also a way to find a decent job, rather than be forced to toss up their skirts in order to survive.”
“Educated women?” The earl gave a mock grimace. “It makes a man shudder to think about it.”
“Auch, laddie, they couldn’t do worse than us at running the world.” The surgeon tucked his pipe into his pocket. “I better get back to work. I have to run a clinic for wounded war veterans later this afternoon, and I need to have that slab o’ meat inside ready for the mortuary wagon before then.”
Making a mental note to send a generous donation to the surgery, Wrexford cocked a quick salute and turned for the gate leading out to the alleyway.
“Wait!”
He looked around.
“I just remembered an odd bit of news I heard from my local apothecary last week,” called Henning. “Apparently there have been a rash of robberies at apothecary shops over the last fortnight. The only thing taken was mercury. Quite a lot by the sound of how many shops were struck.”
Mercury was a prime ingredient in a number of common medicines, but Wrexford didn’t see how that would make it a valuable commodity for a thief.
“Any idea as to why?” he asked.
“Not a bloody clue,” answered the surgeon cheerfully. “You’re the curious cat looking to sniff out answers.”
* * *
“Owwff.” Hawk rolled onto his back and looked longingly at what remained of the buttery chunk of cheese in his hand. “It’s so good, but I can’t eat another bite.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Charlotte. “You and Raven already finished off two kidney pies and an eel pasty.”
“And a wedge of apple tart,” volunteered Raven. He, too, was lying on the rag rug by the stove, peeling an orange.
Oh, the tart, thick with creamy custard, had been gloriously good. Charlotte couldn’t remember the last time she had indulged in such a luxury. “We can save the cheese, along with the rest of the food, for tomorrow.” She rose and gently pried it from Hawk’s sticky fingers. He was already half asleep, and though his face was liberally caked with crumbs, she didn’t have the heart to wake him and insist that he wash himself.
Stepping over Raven’s outstretched legs, she watched him pop several slices of the fruit into his mouth. “I vow, we’ve enough food left over te feed a regiment.”
He grinned. “His Lordship was daft enough to give me that much blunt for vittles, so I figgered there was no harm in spending it.” He fished out some coins from his jacket. “We tried, but we couldn’t gobble it all up.” A sigh. “Do we have to give it back?”
“I don’t think Lord Wrexford expects it. You keep it, so that you and Hawk may purchase pasties when you are hungry.”
“Naw, you keep it. Mebbe next week we can have another feast.”
“An excellent suggestion.” Charlotte carefully selected two shillings from the remaining coins and handed them back. “Still, I would rest easier knowing you have these in your pocket.”
The boy didn’t argue. After inching closer to the warmth of the stove, he laced his hands behind his head. “Is His Lordship going te make trouble fer you, m’lady?”
“No.” She hoped that was the truth.
“What did he want? A fancy toff like him don’t come to this part of Town fer no reason.”
Damnation—Raven was too sharp by half. She had hoped he wouldn’t ask. Deciding it was best to tell him about the arrangement she had made with the earl—or a simplified version of it—Charlotte answered, “He wanted information about the reverend’s murder. We came to an agreement about sharing what I know.”
A frown pinched at his narrow face. “How did he cobble that you’re A. J. Quill? You’ve always told us that it be very dangerous for anyone te know.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “Lord Wrexford has agreed to keep my secret safe in return for my cooperation. And I believe he’ll keep his end of the bargain.”
As long as I keep mine.
Thankfully Raven seemed satisfied with the explanation. He let out a yawn and rolled onto his side. In another moment, his soft, snuffing breathing indicated he was, like his brother, fast asleep.
Her belly full, Charlotte was feeling pleasantly drowsy, too. And yet a niggling sense of foreboding kept her awake. Had she made a grave mistake? The first steps on the road to perdition were always taken with the best of intentions.
Choices, choices.
“Aye, but I chose my path long ago,” she whispered, “and now I must follow it, come what may.”
The earl’s money would allow her to splurge and purchase some much-needed clothing on Petticoat Lane for the boys. And perhaps weekly lessons from the young curate of the parish church. A new oil lamp for the dining table, extra blankets, caulking to fix the loose windowpanes . . . Compiling a list of long-delayed necessities helped ease her misgivings.
If she had made a deal with the devil, at least he was a wealthy one.
Charlotte ignored the pricking of her conscience as she recalled the small scrap of paper tucked in a safe hiding place, along with the earl’s bulging purse. Yes, she had held it back. But life in this part of London had taught that a bargaining chip was always a valuable commodity.
Thoughts of money slowly stirred her to pick up her pen. Lord Wrexford’s payments wouldn’t last forever. Survival hinged on keeping her own skills razor sharp.
Ex nihilo nihil fit. From nothing comes nothing. Time to get back to work.
She pulled a fresh sheet of drawing paper from her desk drawer and started to sketch.
* * *
Mercury. In Roman mythology, Mercury was the god of financial gain, mused Wrexford. He was also the god of trickery and thieves.
The irony was not lost on him.
Some perverse power seemed at play here. The more he learned, the less all the facts fit together into any coherent pattern. And as a man who respected scientific principles, that annoyed him.
Most everything had a logical explanation. One just had to see it—
“Ah, there you are!” drawled Sheffield as Wrexford entered his study. “I was wondering when the devil you would return. I’ve been waiting here for hours.”
“It does not look as though you have been enduring any great suffering in my absence.”
A bottle of prime Madeira was open on the side table, and a plate of sliced roast beef, bread, and pickle was resting in his friend’s lap.
“Riche thought I looked a little peaked. So he offered refreshments,” replied Sheffield. “Alas, he refused to hand over the humidor containing your special spiced Indian cheroots.”
“He knows I would have had his head as well as yours on a platter,” growled the earl.
“Tut, tut, let us not speak of severed necks. It rather ruins a fellow’s appetite.”
Wrexford poured himself a glass of wine and sat down in the facing armchair. He was tired and out of sorts. “Be so good as to swallow your witticisms along with your food and then be on your way. I need some peace and quiet in which to think.”
“About what?” inquired Sheffield.
“About how to keep my neck from being stretched several more inches,” he snapped back.
“Pffft.” His friend waved off the comment. “Unless Griffin has found new evidence at the church, there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that you will swing for the murder.” He took a large bite of bread topped with beef and chewed thoughtfully. “He hasn’t, has he?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Wrexford sunk deeper into the leather cushions. Suspect or not, the crime was now like a thorn rubbing against raw skin. “But I thank you for your overwhelming concern.”
“No need to be sarcastic,” responded Sheffield. “I haven’t been frittering away the hours in idle pleasure.” Setting aside his plate, he rose and sauntered to the sideboard to refill his glass. “It turns out you were right to be curious about Lord Robert Canaday.”
CHAPTER 7
Wrexford sat up a little straighter. “Now you have my attention.”
“I thought I might.” Sheffield took a swallow of wine.
“Ye god, you should have pursued a career on the stage,” he groused. “You bloody well play a dramatic moment to the hilt.”
“While often overacting the role of court jester,” conceded his friend. “Now, about Canaday—word around the gambling salon last night was that Canaday and Holworthy did indeed know each other. Holworthy was also a member of The Ancients, and they shared an interest in religious poetry.”
“Interesting,” murmured Wrexford.
“Yes, but even more interesting is the fact that they apparently had a recent falling-out. One of the gamesters heard that there was quite a shouting match between them, and it ended with Canaday threatening the reverend with violence.”
“Over what?”
“No one seemed to know.”
“Well done, Kit.” Finally, a lead that felt as if he wasn’t just chasing after shadows. “I think I shall have to pay Canaday a visit.”
“I thought you might say that.” Sheffield looked very pleased with himself. “I’ve learned that he engaged to dine at White’s with Yarmouth tonight. After their meal, they will be playing whist with Fielding and Barbury in the card room.”
Wrexford angled a look at the mantel clock. He had a few hours to spare, and he found that the solitude of his laboratory and the precise focus needed to perform an experiment often stimulated sudden moments of clarity concerning other problems.
The mind, he had discovered, worked in strange ways.
“Excellent. I shall plan on meeting him there.”
“Would you care for company?” asked Sheffield casually.
“By which you mean you want me to pay for your supper.”
“A man can’t live on thanks alone.”
That provoked a laugh. “You look to be living quite well on the largesse of my wine cellar and kitchens.”
“You can afford it.”
“Leave me in peace for a few hours and I shall consider it. I have a few things to attend to in my laboratory.”
Sheffield drained his glass. “Then I shall return anon.”
* * *
“A moment, Canaday.” Wrexford caught up with the baron as he and his friend turned down the corridor to the card room. “Might I have a word with you?”
“I’m engaged for a game of whist right now,” answered Canaday. “Perhaps tomorrow—”
“It won’t take long,” interrupted Wrexford. He indicated one of the side rooms. “And I’d rather not wait until tomorrow.”
The baron frowned, but after a slight hesitation, he signaled for his friend to go on without him. “Very well. I can spare a moment. But no more.”
Wrexford closed the door behind them. On spotting Sheffield standing by the mullioned window, Canaday’s tone turned even sharper. “I say, what’s this all about?”
“Your close friendship with the late Reverend Holworthy. I understand the two of you were members of a club called The Ancients.”
“Yes, we were both members, but I would hardly call us friends.”
“And yet you were overheard having a very heated argument. One that you ended by threatening the reverend with violence,” countered the earl. “Would you care to explain that?”
The baron bristled. “No, sirrah, I would not! Indeed, I don’t intend to answer any of your damnably insolent questions. Now kindly step away from the door.”
“I shall do so, but first allow me to point out that either you may answer my questions here in private, gentleman to gentleman, or you may answer a Bow Street Runner’s questions in whatever venue he chooses for the confrontation.” Wrexford paused. “And I daresay his will be a good deal more insolent than mine.”
Canaday’s fleshy face tightened and turned a mottled red, but after releasing an angry huff, he retreated a step. Some vestiges of athletic quickness remained, but his large body was turning flabby. “A
s I said, I was not friends with Holworthy. We shared an interest in poetry and occasionally discussed Wordsworth and some classical Latin works, but that was the extent of our acquaintance. In fact, if you must know the reason of the quarrel, it concerned poetry books.”
“You threatened to come to blows over books?” Wrexford raised a brow. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”
“Nonetheless, it’s true,” insisted Canaday. “My estate library in Kent is known for its collection of rarified books. Holworthy sent me an urgent request several weeks ago asking if he could borrow some volumes of Elizabethan poetry. Said he needed them for a sermon.”
The baron grimaced. “Thinking him a gentleman, as well as a man of God, I agreed. He came down the following day and spent a number of hours perusing the shelves. In the end, he took away three books. And then, to my shock, the scoundrel refused to return them! So yes, I threatened to box his ears. They were very valuable books.”
Wrexford darted a glance at Sheffield, who appeared equally nonplussed. The claim was plausible, he decided. But whoever killed the reverend had shown himself to be cold-bloodedly cunning. Canaday still had a great deal of explaining to do.
“So you say,” he replied gruffly. “But what about the nocturnal visits you and Holworthy made to your laboratory at the Royal Institution over the last few weeks?”
“What utter fustian, Wrexford!” said Canaday hotly. “I never invited Holworthy to my lab, sir. Why would I? He had no interest in science. Granted, he tried to ask me some bizarre questions about medieval alchemy, but I told him that while I have no expertise in chemistry, I have enough scientific knowledge to know alchemy is naught but hocus-pocus nonsense.”
“Mr. Drummond says he saw you and the reverend visit your laboratory,” he pressed. “Several times.”
“Then he is spouting bald-faced lies,” snarled Canaday. “Drummond’s a smarmy, spying little weasel, always sneaking around the corridors, trying to sniff out what others are working on. I once found him skulking around inside my laboratory. He claimed he had found the door half open and was merely trying to ascertain whether I needed assistance—”
Murder on Black Swan Lane Page 8