Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

  “But no less true for being so. If you would let me—”

  “No.” Charlotte summoned a show of steel.

  He sighed. “I won’t give up, you know.”

  “And I won’t give in.” There, the game had played out, as it had in the past and would again in the future. They both understood the rules.

  That made him laugh. Even as a boy, Jeremy could never stay angry for long. Leaning back against the slats, he looked up and watched the clouds scud by, wisps of white against the sun-washed blue sky.

  Charlotte used the silence to observe her surroundings. Lush green grass, tidy walkways, two well-dressed children at play, their governess hovering close by.

  “Thank you for finding the book, Jem.” Knowing a lone woman asking for arcane writings would raise too many unwanted questions, she had asked her friend to look around in the scholarly bookstores on Sackville Street for a certain work by Eirenaeus Philalethes, the American whose alchemical ideas had greatly influenced Newton, Boyle, and the other scientific titans of the late seventeenth century.

  “It led me on a merry dance, I’ll tell you that. A Breviary of Alchemy, or, A Commentary upon Sir George Ripley’s Recapitulation: Being a Paraphrastical Epitome of His Twelve Gates—I assure you, I received some odd looks on asking for that title.” He grinned. “I likely now have the reputation of being a half-mad eccentric.”

  “My apologies—” began Charlotte.

  “Oh, no need for them,” he interrupted. “It was actually quite exciting to feel like a clandestine agent, helping to ferret out hidden secrets.” He lowered his voice. “Holworthy was burned with chemicals, so I’m assuming this has something to do with the recent murders.”

  “I’m not sure.” It wasn’t precisely a lie, she told herself, simply an evasion. “I’ve heard some strange things and am trying to learn a little about the secretive world of alchemy in Newton’s day.”

  “Secretive, indeed, and with good reason. The penalty could be death for trying to turn lead into gold.” Jeremy handed over the small, neatly wrapped package he had been holding in his lap.

  “I owe you a great debt of thanks for this,” said Charlotte, as she tucked the book into her reticule.

  “Which I shall collect very shortly,” he reminded her.

  The idea of having to venture into the heart of Mayfair sent a shiver of trepidation down her spine. But a pledge was a pledge. She would not renege on her word.

  “You know, I had a friend at Cambridge,” mused Jeremy, “a member of Trinity—Newton’s old college—who was fascinated by the subject of alchemy. I remember him regaling me with the fanciful names the practitioners used to disguise their basic chemicals.” A chuckle. “Like green lion, liver of sulfur, and dragon.”

  “Dragon?” Charlotte covered her rising excitement with an amused laugh. “Did your friend ever discover what the terms meant?”

  “Not all of them.” His brow furrowed in thought. “Though I seem to remember that ‘dragon’ referred to mercury.”

  A sudden roaring seemed to fill her ears. She had seen many images of dragons within the books lent to her by Henning. And now, with this vital clue sparking a new way of looking at the scribbled lines, the sketch found on Drummond’s palm became clear.

  That was it—the dead man had taken pains to draw the symbol of mercury on his flesh.

  She plucked at a fold of her gown, trying to hide her excitement. One mystery was solved. As to the greater conundrum of what it meant . . .

  That would be up to Wrexford.

  “Come,” said Jeremy, interrupting her thoughts. “Enough of secrets and science. It’s time for more frivolous pursuits.” Rising, he offered his hand. “I highly recommend the strawberry ice cream. It’s their most popular flavor. Though you may prefer to try a more exotic one, like bergamot, white coffee, or parmesan.”

  Quelling her impatience to rush home and dash off a note to the earl, Charlotte forced a show of good grace and followed her friend’s lead. He deserved no less.

  Still, she felt her chest tighten as they crossed Piccadilly Street.

  “Relax,” he murmured.

  “I am,” she answered.

  “Liar.” Jeremy turned their steps up Bolton Street. “You forget that I know you too well—the right corner of your mouth twitches whenever you are telling a bouncer.”

  Was she really so easy to read?

  Charlotte smiled in reply, but inwardly chided herself to learn from Wrexford how to keep her emotions better masked.

  That proved even more of a challenge once Jeremy had escorted her inside the elegant tea parlor and had the waiter seat them at a table looking out through the large windows onto Berkeley Square. A parade of fancy carriages rolled by, the wheels clicking smoothly over the smooth cobblestones. Ladies frothed in silk and satins strolled along the neatly raked gravel paths of the central garden, accompanied by gentlemen dressed in the first stare of fashion.

  “A sunny day always draws even more business,” explained Jeremy. He, too, was stylishly attired. He had always had exquisite taste, and now with the unexpected inheritance of a title, he had the money to afford fine clothing. His subtle choices of fabrics and colors created an understated elegance that complemented his fine-boned features.

  He was, mused Charlotte, a very attractive man—and by the sidelong looks he was drawing from the other ladies in the shop, it hadn’t gone unnoticed here in Mayfair.

  She shifted in her chair.

  Agile waiters darted around horses and curricles, carrying confections from the shop to the groups of laughing couples who were loitering under the stately maples, enjoying their treats alfresco.

  All the glitter of the brass buttons, silver-threaded trim, and bejeweled rings was making her eyes ache.

  Nodding absently to Jeremy’s suggestion of strawberry ice cream, she turned her gaze to the mansions on the opposite side of the square. The columned entryways, the high mullioned windows, the carved limestone facades glowing like burnished gold in the afternoon sun—this was the heart of aristocratic London, a charmed rectangle of power and privilege.

  It was ironic, thought Charlotte with an inward smile, watching the tea shop’s famous gilded pineapple sign gently swaying in the breeze. Pineapples were a symbol of hospitality, yet only the wealthy were welcome here.

  She was an intruder.

  Jeremy noticed her faraway look. “Shall we eat our ice cream outdoors?” he inquired as the waiter delivered their treats. The garden had a number of benches beneath the shade of the trees.

  She nodded gratefully, happy to escape the cloying sugar and spice scents of the shop.

  They found a quiet spot between two tall ornamental shrubs and made light conversation in between spoonfuls of the creamy confection.

  Which was, Charlotte admitted, sinfully good.

  She was sitting still, savoring the delicious sensation of cold melting into sweetness on her tongue, when the sound of footsteps on the other side of the shrubbery caught her ear.

  They came to a halt.

  “Are you sure?” The voice was pitched low but couldn’t quite disguise the Scottish accent.

  “I’ve just come from White’s. Featherton is a good friend—and he’s also the brother-in-law of one of the justices in the Bow Street magistry.” The second voice spoke with a perfectly polished London accent. “So he confided that he just heard new evidence has been discovered concerning Drummond’s murder. And it’s not good for Wrexford.”

  A muttered oath.

  “Have you any idea when he’ll be returning to Kent?”

  Every muscle in Charlotte’s body tensed.

  “He didn’t say, Mr. Sheffield, but my guess is tomorrow,” replied the Scottish voice. “He was in no mood to linger there.”

  “An arrest warrant has not yet been issued. However, the chances are it soon will be. Is there any way to warn him?”

  “No, and I doubt it would do any good even if we could,” came the wry response. “You
know the earl—he won’t shy away from confronting the authorities.”

  “We need to convince him that discretion is the better part of valor.”

  “I wish you good luck with that.”

  “My luck is due to turn—let’s hope it’s now,” replied Sheffield. “Send word to me as soon as he arrives home.”

  The crunch of retreating steps quickly faded, leaving Charlotte struggling to draw a breath.

  Jeremy shifted and let out a low whistle. “It appears you will have plenty of material for your future drawings.” She had told him nothing about her partnership with the earl. “It appears Lord Wrexford is guilty after all.”

  She didn’t believe it for an instant. But for all their efforts, they still seemed no closer to proving who was the real culprit.

  Setting aside her dish, Charlotte looked up at her friend. “I’m so sorry to cast a cloud over this lovely interlude. But I fear I’m more fatigued than I thought. If you don’t mind, I think it best that I return home.”

  “Of course.” He was on his feet in a flash, and guiding her out to the street. “But this time I’ll brook no argument from you. I’m taking you as far as Red Lion Square in a hackney.”

  For once, she didn’t object. She needed to think—and to strategize. If the murderer was Canaday, or one of the other members of The Ancients, he was a powerful figure in London.

  But so was she.

  Her pen exposed dirty secrets, it influenced public opinion . . . it could draw scrutiny away from Wrexford and focus it elsewhere.

  As Jeremy flagged down a hackney and helped her climb inside, Charlotte was already envisioning the design for tomorrow’s satirical print.

  * * *

  Shadows hung heavy in the high vaulted ceiling, casting a pall over the deserted library. It wasn’t just the cavernous silence or pervasive chill that gave the massive room a crypt-like feel. The books, decided Wrexford, had lifelessness to them, an aura of disinterested neglect. They sat slumbering on their shelves, the bindings cracking, the leather shriveling, the pages turning brittle with age, waiting to be awakened.

  The only signs of stirring were the silvery clouds of dust motes kicked up when he moved from alcove to alcove.

  The library ledgers, a set of three thick volumes penned in a number of different handwritings, were difficult to decipher. The index number given to each book in the collection seemed to be based on a bizarre system of logic only the first cataloguer could explain, and figuring out how they fit into the accompanying map of the room was a challenge. But finally, after several hours of poring over the faded pages, and exploring the alcoves formed by the jutting shelves, he began to make some sense of things.

  A short while later, his diligence paid off. There, near the bottom of a page he matched the scrap found by Charlotte to an entry.

  Artephius his secret Book. Manuscript 103.4—penned by Isaac Newton.

  “Eureka,” he murmured, chafing some warmth back into his crabbed hands. He wished he had thought to bring the bottle of brandy with him. Setting the ledger aside, he took up the map. The next task was to track down its spot on the shelves and see what other volumes were grouped with it.

  As he passed the central work cabinet, where all the ledgers and receipts were kept locked, Wrexford noted a magnificent gilt-framed oil painting hanging on the far wall. The daylight was weak in this section of the room, but something about it caught his eye.

  He moved closer and studied it for a long moment. Though no expert in art, he had a modicum of knowledge on the subject and could recognize certain styles. This looked to be a Rembrandt—and a fine one at that. His own family seat had two similar works, but not nearly as grand.

  A previous baron had possessed extremely good taste, he reflected. Or damnably good luck. It must be worth a fortune.

  Which begged the question of why Canaday didn’t simply sell the painting if he were desperate for blunt. Discreetly, of course. No one liked to admit to stripping family treasures from future generations.

  And there was always the possibility that the entail on the estate forbid the sale of such assets, he reminded himself. Like land, valuable items could be included in the patrimony that must be handed down through the ages. In many ways, a titled lord was merely a steward for his successor, though a goodly number of them squandered the family money, leaving their heirs with huge expenses and little recourse save to marry an heiress.

  Wrexford gave it one last admiring look before turning back to the shelves. Whatever Canaday’s woes, they were not his concern.

  Working methodically through the section indicated on the map, he found the manuscript’s assigned position. A quick search showed that according to the cataloguing system four, not three, other volumes were missing. He jotted down the numbers and headed back to the ledgers, his work almost done.

  Another half hour passed before he stood and carefully tucked his notes into his pocket. At least he now had more than mere guesses as to why Holworthy had been murdered.

  Not that the evidence made any sense. At least, not yet.

  He found Canaday back in the main drawing room, his chair drawn close to a blazing fire, an empty bottle tipped over by his feet, its last dregs pooled darkly on the patterned carpet. He looked like death warmed over.

  “I’m finished here,” he announced.

  The baron raised his head. His throat muscles twitched, but he couldn’t seem to manage a word.

  “What I found may be helpful in keeping both our necks out of the noose,” continued Wrexford. “Assuming what you have told me about not killing your cousin is true.”

  A nervous nod and a croaked whisper. “As God is my judge, I’m not guilty of murder.”

  “Your appeal ought to be directed to a more earthly power,” said Wrexford dryly. He retrieved his coat and hat. “By the by, if you’re so badly dipped, why not consider selling that striking Rembrandt painting hanging in the library? It’s worth far more than the books you dealt to Holworthy.”

  Canaday looked as if he was going to be ill. “N-Never that! It’s of great sentimental value to the family. And besides, it’s part of the entail—couldn’t sell it if I wanted to.”

  “Bad luck for you,” murmured Wrexford. “I’m familiar enough with the Old Masters to know it would solve your money worries in one fell swoop.”

  * * *

  With a few quick flicks of her pen, Charlotte drew in some shadowing around the faces, then leaned back to assess her handiwork.

  It was, she decided, suitably provocative.

  Anthony had described the main room of The Ancients’s clubhouse in great detail many times. As for the members, she knew all too well what Stoughton looked liked. His crony—St. Alban? St. Aubin?—she had seen only once, but she had a good memory for faces. And Wrexford’s description of Canaday was still fresh in her mind.

  She was sure it was accurate, and once she added highlights of garish color to accentuate the grotesquely exaggerated portraits, it would be sensational enough to grab the public’s attention.

  Especially when she penned in a titillating title and subtext.

  Propping up the paper, she stared at the three men and the shadowy silhouettes she had sketched in behind them. Was one of The Ancients a murderer? Both Wrexford’s evidence and her intuition said yes.

  If so, perhaps shining a glaring light on the club’s dark doings would spook the guilty man into giving himself away.

  Charlotte took up a pencil and began to play with possibilities for the wording for the headline. It had to be titillating—and outrageous enough to provoke gossip.

  Why was Reverend Holworthy REALLY murdered?

  Yes, that should throw oil on the fires of speculation. She tested a few phrases to write in under it, but crossed them out as too tame.

  “Think, think,” she murmured, looking at the details of her drawing. The pile of old books, the large open volume on the ornate table, with the men cackling over the strange symbols on the yellowed pages.


  Ah, inspiration struck.

  Does the answer lie in an ANCIENT secret?

  It was perfect—the thinly veiled references would soon have all of London abuzz with speculation.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Dratted woman,” muttered Wrexford. He kicked a clump of rotting cabbage out of his path, and took savage satisfaction in hearing it explode against the grimy brick of the narrow alleyway. The day had already taken an unpleasant turn. At breakfast, his exasperation over the Runner’s misguided investigation had quickly given way to a more visceral emotion on having Charlotte’s newly published satirical print delivered along with his eggs and muffins.

  A grim-faced Tyler had come home from his daily trip to Fores’s shop and wordlessly unrolled the offending art on the dining table.

  Dropping his plans to march over to Bow Street and confront Griffin, Wrexford had instead grabbed his coat and set off at a brisk pace for another part of Town.

  He had to admit, she had a reckless courage. He would have applauded it—had he not instead wanted to wrap his hands around her bloody neck and shake some sense into her.

  “Willful . . . Stubborn . . . Unreasonable.” The ricochet of a stone punctuated each growl. He would have moved on to epithets had he not grudgingly admitted that there was a degree of ironic humor in the proverbial pot calling the kettle black.

  No wonder his friends—what few he had—found him so aggravating to deal with.

  A sardonic smile touched his lips, but quickly tightened to a frown. However brave, Charlotte had put herself at grave risk by poking a stick into this particular nest of vipers. He was fairly certain that at least one of them was a murderer, one who already had shown no compunction about eliminating anyone who might be a threat to exposing his identity.

  Multiply the danger by at least two other unscrupulous dastards, or maybe three.... He didn’t peg Canaday for the murderer—the man lacked the nerve. Was it Stoughton or St. Aubin? Or someone who as yet had been too clever to show his colors?

  Whatever the number, only rudimentary math skills were needed to calculate that she was dancing on a razor’s edge.