Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

  “My thoughts exactly, sir. It also seems safe to say that ‘Golden One’ is a member of the Institution.”

  “Drummond certainly believed he was,” amended the earl. “We know he had a penchant for eavesdropping and snooping around in the private spaces of other members. And the fact that he was murdered and his papers set afire is proof that his suspicions were all too real.”

  “So we’ve learned a great deal.”

  Rising from his chair, Wrexford began to pace. What were they missing? In science, it was a cardinal mistake to allow assumption, not observation, to shape a conclusion.

  Water boils at 212 degrees on the scale devised by Daniel Gabriel Fahrenheit—a fact based on empirical evidence.

  Right now, they were making too many leaps of logic. That bothered him.

  “We’ve conjectured a great deal,” he muttered. “We may be right, but we need to prove it.”

  “Unless there’s some alchemy that transmutes ash back into a pristine piece of paper, we will need to keep looking,” quipped Tyler.

  Another turn of the room and still he felt as if he was spinning in circles. Logic, he chided to himself. When in doubt return to the basics and start again.

  “Golden One.” He came to a sudden stop. “Can you think of any member of the Institution who has blond hair?”

  “Sykes and Fairmont come to mind—and I’m sure there are others,” replied Tyler. “Shall I look into it?”

  “Yes, compile a list,” said Wrexford. “Lowell would know, and he’s just as anxious as we are to have the killer caught.” He hesitated. “But let us first compile the list and look it over before bringing anyone else into the investigation. If the killer is indeed a member, we must be very careful not to warn him of our suspicions.”

  “With a list we could then match the men with their area of expertise in chemistry. That would help eliminate some of the names,” suggested the valet.

  But before they could muse any further on the subject, Sheffield burst into the room.

  “Bloody hell, pour me a brandy. I’ve run hell for leather across half of London,” he wheezed, his breath coming in ragged gulps. “I did what you asked and dug around for more information about St. Aubin—and discovered that he, too, is a member of The Ancients. But for now, he’s not of primary concern—I think I’ve discovered who the murderer is.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Tyler moved to the pearwood console at the far end of the room, where a silver tray of elegant decanters sat centered between the two tall storage shelves filled with jars of chemicals.

  “Make that Highland malt,” called Sheffield as he sank into a chair with a theatrical wince. “I need some fire in my belly to revive me.”

  Wrexford crossed his arms and waited.

  “There were no hackneys to be had in St. Giles,” continued his friend. “I’ve ruined a perfectly good pair of boots mucking through those stinking alleyways.” He flexed his hands. “Not to speak of bruising my knuckles fighting off a footpad.”

  “I concede a round of applause for your valiant heroics,” said the earl. “And your flair for melodrama.” He waited for his friend to toss back a long swallow of his whisky. “Now kindly stubble the playacting, Kit, and tell us what you’ve learned.”

  Sheffield straightened and assumed an air of injured dignity. “I’ll have you know I’ve put myself at considerable risk to pull your cods out of the fire. The least you could do is show some appreciation.”

  “Kit,” warned the earl.

  “It’s Canaday,” announced his friend without further ado. “He’s been lying through his teeth about his connection with Holworthy.”

  “Which is?” queried the earl.

  “They are cousins!” A note of triumph shaded Sheffield’s voice. “Granted, second or third cousins through Canaday’s mother. But according to Grantley, who grew up on the neighboring estate, the two of them have known each other since childhood. In fact, Holworthy spent several summers living with the baron’s family.”

  “Cousins,” mused the earl. “And yet he took great pains to hide that fact.”

  “Precisely! And the question is why,” said Sheffield eagerly.

  Why, indeed. But this was no time to go off half cocked. Knowing his friend’s penchant for exaggerating, he moved to the bank of mullioned windows and stared out at the night shadows, carefully reviewing all that he knew about the baron.

  The facts—look at the facts. As he considered the empirical evidence, this latest bit of information about Canaday made all the disparate pieces suddenly fit together.

  “The question is why,” repeated Sheffield.

  “That,” said Wrexford slowly, “is something I intend to ask him first thing in the morning. And this time, I shall rattle the truth out of him, if I have to break all two hundred and five bones in his body.”

  “Two hundred and six,” murmured Tyler.

  “To do that, you will have to journey to his estate in Kent,” said Sheffield. “On top of all else, I’ve learned he left London yesterday to spend a week at his estate in Kent.”

  “Even better,” he replied. “I was already planning on having a look at his library. This will give me a chance to kill two birds with one stone.”

  * * *

  Charlotte let out a laugh as she thumbed through the drawings of the Tower lions. The childlike exuberance was endearing. There was an unfettered freedom to the lines and squiggles, an innocent enthusiasm that replaced the all-too-present streetwise wariness.

  However, the humor quickly left her lips. She worried about the boys, especially Raven. He seemed more withdrawn of late, as if the weight of worldly responsibilities was pushing him inward. Charlotte knew he considered himself his brother’s protector. And she sensed that he had also taken her under his fledgling wing.

  No boy that young should bear those burdens.

  Raven had no idea of his age. To her eye he looked to be no more than eleven, and yet the recent spurt of growth might indicate he was a year older. She found it hard to think of him as more than a child. But in the stews, the age of twelve would be considered on the cusp of manhood. Why, boys of fourteen or fifteen routinely marched off to the hell-cursed war raging on the Continent.

  A chilling thought.

  She blinked back the sting of tears. Wrexford’s money would at least allow her to take better care of their basic needs. More nourishing food, a modicum of education, warm clothing . . . She made a mental note to make another visit to Petticoat Lane and buy less tattered garments for both of them.

  It wasn’t nearly enough. They should know the joy of carefree play, of youthful laughter, of sweet, fresh air and streets free of pestilence and predators. Ah, but Life was often stingy with its favors. She had learned to be a pragmatist and take what was given.

  The musing was a sharp reminder to turn her attention back to the books on alchemy. The boys had eaten their supper and hared off to deliver her latest drawings to the engraver, leaving her with several quiet hours in which to continue her study of the strange images.

  As art, they were fascinating, and yet repelling. She couldn’t help but feel there was a darkness to their spirit, some malevolent force lurking behind the marvelous technical skill of the detailed engravings. Power run amok. Or maybe it was just her imagination. She had always disliked any force that tried to bend others to its will.

  Picking up her pen, she began to jot down notes as she read the descriptions. Green Lion, Neptune’s Trident, Scepter of Jove—Good Heavens, what bizarre names the alchemists chose to hide the real ingredients of their chemical potions. It would seem laughably absurd if men were not being murdered over these arcane writings.

  After another hour of cross-checking texts, Charlotte finally found a reference that indicated Diana was a code word for silver. Now, if she could just figure out the meaning of dragon, which was appearing more and more often in the various formulas. Exhaling a sigh, she took a moment to flex the stiffness from her hunched shoulders
and then set back to work.

  * * *

  Wrexford guided his curricle through the last, sweeping turn of the drive and slowed his horses to an easy trot. Up ahead, the manor house sat at the top of the hill, surrounded by broad lawns, a small formal garden, and a grove of birch and elms that would wind down toward the stables. Constructed of limestone, its classical columns and pediments lit with a honey-gold light as the sun broke through the scudding clouds.

  It was a handsome building from afar, with tasteful lines and pleasing symmetry. And yet, as Wrexford came closer, he noted the small signs of neglect—a few missing roof tiles, the unpruned hedges rising up within the garden. Either Canaday was a careless steward of his family home, or he was not as plump in the pocket as he would have people believe.

  After drawing to a halt in front of the entrance portico, he jumped down from his perch and tossed the reins to a waiting groom, along with a shilling. “Rub them down well and give them a measure of grain.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Wrexford took the stairs two at a time and rapped the brass knocker. He had left at dawn, driving hard and making good time along the toll road that wound down from London through Tunbridge Wells. The baron would likely be just sitting down to his noonday meal. The thought of rousting him from the pleasures of a well-cooked joint of beef was immensely cheering. His own breadbox was empty, and the dust from the rutted country roads had parched his throat.

  “Yes?” The butler, a cadaverous figure whose shabby black clothing accentuated his colorless face, fixed him with what was meant to be a quelling look. “The master of the house is not expecting any company.”

  “Tell him Lord Wrexford is here to see him,” he replied. “And advise him that it’s not a request.”

  The man looked frozen by indecision.

  Wrexford stripped off his driving gloves and slapped them softly against his palm. “Or would you rather I tell him myself?”

  The butler opened his mouth, revealing a set of bad teeth, and then appeared to think twice about a show of bravado. He silently retreated into the gloom of the unlit entrance hall.

  “I’ll wait in the drawing room.” Wrexford stepped over the threshold. “Have a footman bring me a tankard of ale and a collation of ham and bread. And do it quickly. I’m famished.”

  The refreshments arrived before Canaday. Wrexford stood by the bank of arched windows and kept an eye on the graveled path leading to the stables as he ate, half expecting the baron to try to evade the meeting. But at last the door opened and Canaday entered.

  “What’s the meaning of this, sirrah!” His face was flushed, as if he had sought courage in a bottle of brandy. “How dare you invade my house, and give orders to my staff.”

  “Be grateful that I give you the courtesy of coming to speak with you myself, instead of dispatching the Bow Street Runner who is handling the investigation of Holworthy’s murder.”

  “Have him come!” blustered Canaday, brushing back the strands of receding hair from his brow. “I told you, I know nothing about the crime.”

  “So you did, and that turns out to be a bald-faced lie.”

  “Y-You question my honor as a gentleman?”

  Wrexford answered with a mocking laugh. “Clearly you’re no gentleman, Canaday. Though I haven’t quite decided whether you are a snake or just a miserable worm.”

  Canaday’s hands were shaking. Clenching them into fists, he sputtered, “I’ll not stand to be insulted in my own—”

  “You’re wasting your breath,” he interrupted. “I suggest you save it for telling me about your cousin, and what you were really arguing over.”

  The air leached from the baron’s lungs in a whispery hiss. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “Did you think you could keep your relationship with Reverend Holworthy a secret?”

  Canaday leaned heavily against the back of an armchair for support. “You truly are the Devil Incarnate.”

  “Perhaps. But given that you have a choice between the Runner and the Devil, I am the lesser of two evils.” Wrexford let his words sink in for a moment before adding, “I may be able to help you, while Griffin simply wishes to slip a noose around someone’s neck, be damned with whether he’s guilty or not. And with this new bit of evidence coming to light, you’ve just taken my place as the prime suspect.”

  Panic bubbled up in the other man’s voice. “I swear, I had nothing to do with his death!”

  “Why were you quarreling with Holworthy?” he pressed, giving the man no quarter.

  And yet, more evasiveness. The baron’s gaze slid away. “It was a private family matter.”

  “Suit yourself.” Wrexford reached for his driving coat, which he had slung over a tea table. “If I recall correctly, a mere baron cannot claim the right to be tried by his peers in the House of Lords. What a pity. The Old Bailey’s judges tend to be quite severe for the crime of murder, especially when they get their hands on a minor noble.”

  “Wait.” The word came out as a whisper.

  Wrexford paused, hat hovering just above his head.

  All the fight drained out of Canaday. Slumping into the chair, he closed his eyes for an instant, and drew a ragged breath. “Several investments have gone bad, leaving me a . . . a little dipped for funds.” He blotted his brow with his sleeve. “Good God, you know how it is—it takes a hellish amount of blunt to keep up an estate and London residence.”

  “I’m not interested in gentleman-to-gentleman palavering, Canaday. As a man of science, I care only about the facts.”

  The baron shot him a hateful look. But it quickly sagged into surrender. “Josiah learned about my financial troubles, and offered to buy some of the rare books and manuscripts in my library,” he admitted. “Said he had an acquaintance, an avid collector of arcane books on the occult, who would pay a fortune for them. As it was just musty old medieval nonsense, I readily agreed.”

  “How did he know about them?” asked Wrexford, curious as to whether the baron would answer truthfully.

  “He spent a number of summers here, and was always more interested in ancient books than I was. I assume he had come across them during the countless hours he spent poking around in there.”

  So far, so good. “Go on.”

  “My cousin made a down payment, but then he kept putting me off about the rest. That wasn’t part of the deal.” Canaday wet his lips. “So yes, I was angry. But for God’s sake, I-I certainly didn’t kill him.”

  Then why was it that the baron had gone white as a ghost?

  “What else aren’t you telling me?” he asked softly.

  “Nothing! I swear it!”

  Wrexford could smell the fear oozing out of Canaday. Along with yet more lies. No question the baron was holding back secrets. But for the moment, he decided to put that aside and pursue the matter of the library.

  Moving to the decanters set on the sideboard, he poured a measure of brandy into a glass and handed it to Canaday. “What books did Holworthy buy from you?”

  The baron gratefully gulped down a swallow before answering. “I-I really don’t remember.”

  “Your collection is said to be quite large. Surely you have a ledger cataloguing it.” Most estate libraries had records of their contents. Like land, livestock, and jewelry, books were valuable commodities.

  “Yes. Though I’ve not used it much.” Canaday took another swallow of brandy. “You are welcome to look through it if you wish.”

  No doubt thinking there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of spotting what was missing. It would take days, or perhaps weeks, to cross-check every entry against the endless rows of books.

  “Thank you.” Wrexford smiled. Using the library mark Charlotte had found, a search for the book’s title within the ledger should yield a result, and finding its position on the shelves would make guessing what other books had gone missing an easier task. “I shall take you up on the offer.”

  Canaday appeared surprised, but he couldn’t very well
refuse. Draining the last of his drink, he set aside the glass and levered to his feet.

  “Follow me.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Smoothing the creases from her walking dress, Charlotte did a slow turn in front of the cheval glass. She had lost weight since last wearing the patterned silk and it now hung too loosely from her hips to be fashionable. Not that a four-year-old gown could ever hope to be a la mode here in London. Still, it brightened her spirits to feel it against her skin. Memories, memories. The finespun fabric and delicate flowers reminded her of Italian sunshine and the smell of country air washed clean with summer rain.

  Her reflection stared at her in mute reproach.

  “Yes, I know. It does no good to think of the past.” Charlotte reset a few of her hairpins before putting on a plain chip-straw bonnet and tying the ribbons in a neat bow. Her hair, she noted, had long since lost any of the golden highlights from her time abroad. Mouse brown, which perhaps was fitting as her present life was all about creeping through the shadows and avoiding notice.

  A dark merino cloak, more iron grey than blue, completed her outfit. One that wouldn’t draw a second glance from the beau monde.

  Thank God for that.

  A fool’s errand, perhaps. In return for the latest favor she had asked of him, Jeremy had demanded one of his own—being allowed to take her to Gunter’s Tea Shop for a treat of their special ice cream confections after they finished their serious business. She should have insisted on a different forfeit. After all, classical mythology was rife with warnings on the dangers of crossing back and forth between two worlds.

  With a turn of the key, she carefully locked the front door behind her.

  But of late, Charlotte reflected, she seemed to be testing the goodwill of the gods.

  “You look tired,” said Jeremy as she joined him on the bench in Green Park an hour later. “You shouldn’t have walked here.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosy,” she replied, then instantly regretted it on seeing his face tighten. “It’s just a common saying, Jem.”