Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

  Gracefully done, thought the earl. Lowell had the well-mannered ease of someone born into a world where style and charm counted for more than substance. And unlike most gentlemen of the aristocracy, he had found a way to use his talents to do something useful.

  The vast majority of them were bored to flinders.

  And boredom could be dangerous.

  “Come, let us go join the private party,” suggested Wrexford. “And see what gossip bubbles up.”

  “You go on,” replied Sheffield. “I think I shall stroll over to White’s and start seeing what more I can learn about St. Aubin. Grenfall is usually there at this hour, and he was in the same Guards regiment.”

  “Discretion, Kit,” reminded the earl.

  His friend cocked a mock salute and headed off.

  * * *

  Charlottte set Henning’s package on her desk, then removed her damp cloak and stirred the embers in the stove to life. Thankfully, her finances now allowed her to add some extra chunks of coal. Though the clouds had started to clear, the watery sun was too weak to chase the chill from her bones.

  And an unwilling glance at the dark oilskin wrapping did nothing to dispel the feeling.

  Strange how the minds of men could be capable of creating both poetic beauty and coldhearted terror. How was it that some individuals believed they had the right to transcend their mortal powers to play God with the universe?

  She blinked as the lamplight sputtered, the just-lit wick needing another instant to steady its flame. No possible answer came to mind, save for that the temptation of Evil had been an elemental part of the human condition since the Garden of Eden.

  Settling into the comfortable contours of her work chair, Charlotte felt a frisson of surprise at how loath she was to cut the cording around the books. Since Anthony’s death, she had kept her fears and suspicions—and yes, her guilt—locked away, telling herself the past was the past. That nothing would bring him back had seemed a compelling reason for focusing on the future.

  And now?

  Somehow, she knew in her heart that with the flick of her penknife, she would be taking an irrevocable step.

  A crossing of the Rubicon. There would be no going back.

  Once she committed to an active investigation, not simply confiding her secrets to Wrexford and allowing him to act, she would have to face her doubts, and the demons whose taunting whispers implied that she should have been strong enough to save Anthony.

  Perhaps even more unsettling, she would have to face her own niggling resentment at feeling guilty. The roles should have been reversed, but Anthony had always been ethereal, incapable of shouldering the responsibilities of everyday survival. He had retreated into his art and his dreams, leaving her to manage the realities of life.

  Leaving his death—along with all the conflicting emotions shrouding it—buried might be for the best.

  The truth would, of course, also remain entombed, moldering for eternity in the same deep, dark crypt....

  Footsteps peltered across the foyer. The inner lock yielded to a key and the door flung open with a thump.

  “Look, look, m’lady!” A breathless Hawk skidded to a halt, followed by Raven, who was moving at a slightly more sedate pace. “I found a ha’penny in the mud at Covent Garden market and I bought these for you!”

  As Charlotte looked up through the flitting shadows, the small clutch of pale pink roses was like a blaze of sweet sunlight brightening the gloom.

  Her throat tightened. “Oh, how lovely,” she said in a small voice.

  “You like ’em?” Hawk came a step closer, suddenly looking a little uncertain. “There wuz other colors, but Raven thought ye’d like pink best.”

  “On account of your fancy shawl,” explained his brother.

  The boy had sharp eyes. These days, Charlotte wore sturdy, serviceable garments fashioned in muted shades of grey and brown. But tucked away in her armoire was a Kashmir paisley shawl from long ago, woven in soft shades of pink and rose madder. She had put it on once, in celebration of Anthony’s birthday.

  “They’re perfect.” She rose and gave Hawk a swift hug before taking the bouquet and placing it in an earthenware jug. “See how they make the room look so cheerful.” The leaves fluttered as she set it on the table, as if casting a spell to banish the grim ghosts from the place.

  “Silly, if you ask me, te make a fuss over bits of greenery,” said Raven, but his mouth curled up at the corners as he took in his younger brother’s beaming face.

  “Beauty lifts the spirits,” she told him. “As do art and poetry and music.”

  “But they’ll just be dead in a few days,” he replied.

  “All the more reason to appreciate this moment, and hold it close to brighten a darker day.”

  Raven shrugged, and yet beneath the fringe of his dark lashes, Charlotte could see his gaze had turned pensive.

  “And now it is my turn to give a gift.” She took a shilling from the purse in her desk drawer, along with two pencils and several sheets of sketch paper, and handed them to Hawk. “There is still plenty of daylight left. Treat yourselves to a visit to the Tower Menagerie. I would like for you to draw me some pictures of the lions.”

  “Huzzah! Lions!” cried Hawk. He made a fearsome face and let out a throaty roar.

  “Aye and you’re just the right-sized morsel for their afternoon tea,” teased Raven. “Have a care, runt. You’re puny enough to tumble through the bars and end up as pudding fer the beasts.”

  “I’m growing,” protested Hawk. “Soon I’ll be nearly as big as you!”

  His brother answered with a very rude sound.

  “Run along and enjoy yourselves,” said Charlotte, finding their youthful exuberance had given her the courage to smile.

  As they ran off, playfully pushing and shoving to see who could get out to the street first, she carefully relocked the door and returned to her desk.

  The gloom shivered, sending dark-on-dark ripples through the shadows as it came back to life and started to creep out from the corners of the room.

  Drawing a shuddering breath, Charlotte looked down at the bundle of books. She picked up her penknife. Though feather light, its weight pressed heavily against her palm.

  Choices, choices.

  Snick, snick. The blade severed the cords.

  “Alea iacta estz,” she whispered, tugging the twisted hemp free of the covering. The die has been cast.

  * * *

  Lowell was surrounded by a circle of prominent Institution patrons by the time Wrexford made his way to the salon. There was, he noted, no dearth of other luminaries crowded into the room. Davy’s good friend the famed poet Samuel Coleridge was present and chatting with Joseph Banks, the éminence grise of scientific London, while the dashing Count Rumford, one of the principal founders of the Institution, was regaling the novelist Maria Edgeworth with stories of his adventures on the Continent. And, of course, the ladies of the ton were flocking round them, like so many brilliant butterflies in their gossamer silks and jewel-tone colors.

  After accepting a glass of champagne punch, Wrexford strolled over to join a group of fellow members, curious to hear what was being said about Drummond’s demise.

  “Though it may not be kind to speak ill of the dead, he was an unpleasant fellow,” responded Lord Thirkell to the earl’s casual question. “His attention was focused more on snooping around what the rest of us were doing, as if looking for a way to steal the march on our discoveries.”

  Several nods confirmed the sentiment.

  “You don’t think he was engaged in his own research?” probed Wrexford. “I thought I heard somewhere that he had become interested in old writings on the philosopher’s stone?”

  A chorus of guffaws greeted the question.

  “The stone?” Farnum made a pained face. “What utter fustian. Though I suppose it doesn’t surprise me that Drummond would be drawn to such fiddle-faddle.”

  “Aye. The man didn’t have a sensible—not to
speak of original—idea in his cockloft,” agreed Lord Greeley. “We shall have to be more careful as to who is elected to take his place.”

  As the men began to debate the merits of several potential candidates, Wrexford drifted away, pausing to exchange inconsequential conversation with a few other acquaintances before spotting Lowell break away from the Scottish visitors and take refuge in the lee of a massive floral arrangement set atop a marble plinth.

  “An impressive turnout,” he murmured, lifting his glass in salute as he joined the superintendent.

  Lowell gave a wry smile. “Murder may have added to the allure of the event. People have a ghoulish fascination with scandal.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of that,” he answered dryly.

  A chuffed laugh. “Sorry if I have touched a sore spot, Wrexford.”

  “I assure you, I’ve long since ceased to feel any sort of discomfort from what is said about me.”

  “You truly don’t give a fig for what others think?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “An admirable sangfroid.” Lowell sighed as his gaze glided over the crowd. “Alas, my position requires I make compromises. As in somehow finding polite platitudes to deflect the dowager’s suggestion that I court her granddaughter.”

  “There could, I suppose, be worse fates,” said the earl.

  “Not many.” Lowell gave a mock shiver. “I’d rather be boiled in nitric acid. The girl can’t string two coherent words together.”

  Wrexford chuckled, but the quip made him curious about how the man had come to be working for the Institution. “Speaking of acid, have you an interest in chemistry? Is that what drew you to serving as superintendent here?”

  “No interest, and no knowledge,” confessed Lowell. “I’m afraid I couldn’t distinguish sulfur from saltpeter or sugar. However, I’ve a need to earn my own keep, and as I seem to have a knack for administrative details, my father used his influence with Rumford to help me secure the position.”

  “You must find all the talk of science a bit boring.”

  “On the contrary. I have an interest in Lepidoptera—butterflies in particular—so I understand the curiosity to observe and understand the world around us.” A wry smile. “Though some might call it an obsession.”

  Wrexford nodded. “Clearly you understand the workings of the scientific mind.”

  “I dabble, that is all, and my interest is likely frivolous, for I’m simply drawn to the beauty of form and color,” replied Lowell. “Despite my lack of seriousness, the board has kindly allowed me to have a small study space in the basement for my specimens. But, of course, my main focus is on the work of running the Institution, which requires most of my time.”

  “You do it well,” replied the earl. “Not everyone has the gift of dealing smoothly with difficult people.”

  Lowell took a small sip of his wine. “I have had a great deal of experience—my family is notable for its collection of irascible eccentrics and curmudgeons.” A note of humor crept into his voice. “I seem to be the only levelheaded, even-tempered one of the lot.”

  “Drummond’s murder must certainly have tested those qualities.” Wrexford decided not to waste the opportunity to learn what he could about the Runner’s investigation. “Is Mr. Griffin making any progress in identifying a suspect?”

  “Other than you?”

  Wrexford grinned at the gallows humor and found himself liking the fellow more and more. “It would be far more comfortable if he would fasten his jaws on the real culprit. It’s a cursed nuisance to have the man constantly nipping at my heels.”

  “I take it you found nothing in the laboratory that might help direct his attention elsewhere?”

  “There was nothing of interest,” he lied.

  Lowell’s expression remained politely neutral. Whatever he was thinking, he masked it well. “How unfortunate.”

  A comment that could hold a number of different meanings.

  “Nor,” added Wrexford, “did I abscond with any incriminating evidence. I didn’t kill Drummond.”

  “Actually, I didn’t think you did. Else I wouldn’t have allowed you to go back inside the room,” said the superintendent. “I simply meant it was unfortunate that there is nothing to help Griffin catch the murderer. After the first flurry of prurient interest, the beau monde will begin to find the scandal distasteful, and that may affect our attendance. So naturally I would prefer to have the crime solved as soon as possible. To that point—”

  A hail from across the room interrupted the exchange. “Alas, duty calls,” said Lowell. “Lord Boscobel is demanding my presence. If you would excuse me.”

  “But of course,” replied Wrexford.

  The superintendent set down his drink on the plinth. “As I was about to say, do let me know if there is anything else I can do to help.”

  “I shall.” Though at the moment the earl couldn’t think of anything that might prove useful. He still felt damnably in the dark. Though he had a number of tantalizing clues in hand, as of yet he could make no logical connections between them.

  Logic. Charlotte would no doubt chide him to trust more in intuition. Though that sense seemed to be failing him as well.

  After a few more desultory conversations with the other guests, Wrexford left the party and headed down to the street. On reaching the corner of Piccadilly Street, he hesitated on which way to turn. His club was just a short walk down St. James’s Street, and at this hour, Canaday was likely to be in the reading room, enjoying a cigar and a glass of port. Instead, he crossed the street to flag down a hackney and ordered it to head east.

  CHAPTER 14

  Charlotte slowly unwrapped the oilskin and set the twine-tied bundle of manuscripts aside for later. After examining the books, she decided to begin with the one filled with exotic imagery. Setting her notebook and a pencil close at hand, she returned to the beginning and started to read.

  All things are concealed in all. One of them all is the concealer of the rest—their corporeal vessel, external, visible, and moveable. All liquefactions are manifested in that vessel. For the vessel is a living and corporeal spirit....

  The pictures ranged from simple geometric shapes and complex symbols to elaborately detailed engravings, and the deeper she delved into the pages, the more mystified she became. Many of them appeared based on ancient mythological or biblical references, while other weirdly fantastical images had no point of reference in her scope of knowledge.

  In some ways, the sheer scope of imagination was extraordinary. But Charlotte found she could not admire them. Some, in fact, were deeply disturbing. Their essence was all about seeking control and power.

  Even if it meant making a Faustian pact with the Devil.

  As she read, she stopped occasionally to make a rough copy of an image in her notebook and add a few notes on its meaning. With each new chapter, it felt as if another portal was opening, drawing her deeper and deeper into a strange and mystical world.

  It took several loud raps on the front door to jar Charlotte into reality. Her nerves already unsettled by the images, she slipped a small pocket pistol out of her desk drawer before rising and moving quietly into the foyer.

  “Bloody hell.” The oath, edged with exasperation, rumbled through the thick oak.

  She slid back the bolt. “To what do I owe the honor of yet another visit? Is someone else dead?”

  “Not that I know of,” answered Wrexford. “I wanted to ask you a question about . . .” He paused, his words pinched off by a quizzical frown.

  “Yes?” she encouraged. “About what?”

  “Might I come in?”

  “That would be best.” Charlotte quickly stepped aside. “If you are going to make a habit of paying a visit, you might try to be a trifle less conspicuous.” She eyed his exquisitely tailored clothing and tasseled Hessian boots. “I live quietly and simply, milord, and do nothing that might draw attention to my home. I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

  “My apo
logies. I will be more careful in the future,” he murmured. Her movement must have set off a glint of metal, for his gaze had dropped to her right hand. “I am glad to see that you heeded my earlier warning to take precautions for your safety.”

  “I’m always careful, Lord Wrexford.” The hammer uncocked with a tiny snick. Loath to appear rag mannered, she added, “Alas, I can’t offer you pastries from Gunter’s Tea Shop, but would you care for a cup of tea?”

  Wrexford followed her into the main room. “Thank you, but no need to trouble yourself. I’ve just come from imbibing ample refreshments.” He took a seat at the table, and crossed his legs. An odd sort of mood seemed to have hold of him.

  But then, Charlotte reminded herself, she was hardly in a position to judge the nuances of his moods. Despite their recent conversations, most of what she knew about him was based on rumor and innuendo. And she knew all too well how those prisms could distort reality.

  “A surfeit of champagne and lobster patties, no doubt,” she murmured as she returned to her desk.

  “You appear to know a great deal about the extravagances of the beau monde parties.”

  “Of course I do,” she replied. “Have you forgotten that I make my living by knowing all the gory details of how Polite Society amuses itself?”

  “That would be rather difficult to forget.” A sardonic smile flashed for an instant. “By the by, this morning’s print of Drummond’s demise was particularly striking. The scene was rendered quite well, save for the details of the body. You made it appear terribly gruesome. I did mention there was very little blood from the wound, didn’t I?”

  “Artistic license, milord. The public is not looking for subtlety.”

  Another smile. “Is that why you insist on exaggerating the beakiness of my nose? Were I a sensitive soul, your pen would cut to the heart of my vanity.”