Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

  The earl was several streets away from Charlotte’s house when he spotted Raven and Hawk in the entrance to an alleyway, taking turns pitching rocks at a half-broken bottle.

  “You there—weasels!” he called. “Come here.”

  The younger boy laughed and trotted over to him. Raven was slower to respond, and crossed the muddy lane with deliberately slow steps. “Whatcha wont?” he demanded, lifting his chin to a pugnacious tilt.

  The earl fixed him with his most imperious stare. “Let’s try again, shall we? I’m sure Mrs. Sloane would prefer something more along the lines of ‘Good morning, Lord Wrexford. Did you wish to speak with me?’ ”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed, but after a heartbeat of hesitation, he reluctantly repeated the greeting—in perfectly enunciated King’s English.

  “That’s better,” he murmured. “And yes, I do wish to speak with you weasels.” The narrow lane looked to be deserted, but in this part of Town, there was always someone watching. “Come, step over here.”

  The doorway to the brick warehouse was tucked within the shadows of a sagging overhang. He motioned the boys to step under it and crouched down to put himself at eye level with them.

  Scowling, Raven shifted from foot to foot.

  Wrexford pulled two pocketknives from inside his coat. The handles were made of dark textured stag horn, trimmed in nickel silver. He held one up and pressed a hidden lever, which, with a whisper-soft snick, released a wicked-looking blade.

  “Cor!” Hawk’s eyes were suddenly wide as tea saucers.

  “If you two are intent on protecting Mrs. Sloane,” he said, “I’d prefer you do it with a proper weapon, rather than some primitive shank of half-sharpened steel.”

  Raven’s gaze moved slowly over the shiny lethal curves to the razored point.

  The earl held the knife still a moment longer, then snapped the blade shut and held it out to the boy.

  For an instant, their hands touched as Raven carefully closed his fingers around the horn handle.

  “Keep these hidden away. They are not toys. They are only to be used in an emergency,” counseled Wrexham as he passed the second one to Hawk. “It’s for your own safety. There are men in the stews who would hurt you to take possession of them. Do you understand?”

  Hawk nodded solemnly, looking too overwhelmed for words. Raven quickly slipped the weapon into his boot, and helped his younger brother do the same.

  A low “Aye” was all he said. But Wrexford was satisfied.

  “May we tell m’lady?” asked Hawk.

  “I think it best we keep them a secret—a secret between us men.” He held out his palm faceup. “Give me your pledge.”

  Raven laid Hawk’s hand on the earl’s, then covered it with his own.

  “Remember,” said Wrexford, “be discreet.”

  “Wot’s discreet?” whispered Hawk.

  “Very, very careful,” he answered.

  A ghost of a grin flitted over Raven’s narrow face. “Yes, milord,” he said in the plummy tones of a London aristocrat. “Weasels know how te be discreet. It’s how they stay alive.”

  “Discreet,” repeated Hawk, testing the word on his tongue. “Ye have my word on it, sir.”

  “Excellent.” Wrexford ruffled the boy’s hair and then stood up. “I am counting on you two to keep a close watch on the neighborhood. Any suspicious people loitering around, you send word to me immediately.” He gave them his address on Berkeley Square.

  “Aye, we know where you live. We keep our peepers open.” Raven met his gaze with an unblinking stare. “You expect trouble, m’lord?”

  “Yes,” he answered frankly. “And when it comes, let us try to be ready for it.”

  Like the restless alleyway shadows, the boys flitted away into the gloom. They would be sharp-eyed sentinels, but the earl was under no illusions as to the cunning of their adversary.

  He was gratified to find Charlotte’s front door securely locked, and that she was careful to challenge his knock before sliding back the bolts.

  “You’re a damnable fool,” he uttered, after making sure the door was secured.

  “And good morning to you, too, sir,” she replied. “I would offer you coffee if I had any, for clearly my inferior brand of tea isn’t strong enough to awaken a more cheerful mood.”

  “This is no jesting matter, Mrs. Sloane.”

  “I assure you, I have never been more deadly serious.”

  “How fitting,” he retorted. “Because you have certainly put yourself in deadly peril with that devil-cursed print.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t look closely enough at Holworthy’s mutilated corpse.” Wrexford was deliberately harsh. “It was not a pretty ending.”

  Charlotte didn’t blanche. “You forget, sir, that I watched my husband suffer through days of physical agony and half-mad delusions. So spare me the lectures on not understanding what I am up against. Not only is it patronizing, but it’s also insulting. Whatever you think of me, I am not a fool.”

  Damnation. In his righteous anger, he had forgotten about that. “You’re right, it was,” he admitted. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged off the apology. “We’ve more important things to talk about. I’ve made a very important discovery—”

  “So have I,” he interjected. “However, as a gentleman, I shall allow ladies to go first.”

  “I’m not a lady, which, as you well know, is a distinction reserved for members of your upper class. I’m merely an ordinary woman.”

  “Artistic license. Surely I may be granted the same bending of the rules as you are,” he replied. “Besides, the boys call you m’lady, so I am simply following precedent.”

  “Let us not waste time in idle chatter,” chided Charlotte. She looked more agitated than the momentary banter merited. But then, he reminded himself, there was good reason for her nerves to be on edge.

  He took a seat. “I’m listening.”

  “I think I’ve figured out what the sketch on Drummond’s hand means.” Charlotte moved to her desk and scooped up several books, which she carried back to the table. “I spent hours looking at the various engravings and reading the explanations of the iconography, and slowly began to understand the meaning of the visual representations.”

  She paused to open up one of the books and spin it around to face him. “See this one here?”

  “The dragon?” asked Wrexford.

  “Yes.” Charlotte had bookmarks in the other volumes and flipped to the pages. “Now look at these illustrations. What do you notice?”

  He studied them carefully. “There are certain similarities in detail despite the different drawing styles. The tail is always curled in the same design, the wings slant at the same angle, the tongue has three points. . . .”

  “Precisely!” Paper cracked as she smoothed out the page from Henning’s mortuary notebook. “Now, look again at the mark you copied from Drummond’s palm.”

  It took some imagination, but Wrexford saw why she sounded excited. “By Jove, you have a falcon’s eye.” He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Now, if only we knew what it meant.”

  A smile curled on her lips. “In alchemy, dragon is a code word for mercury.”

  The impact of the revelation took a moment to sink in. “Well done, Mrs. Sloane. A brilliant bit of sleuthing,” he murmured. “It would seem that art can indeed be a powerful tool in science.”

  Was that a faint blush stealing to her cheeks? Or merely a reflection of light off the cover of the oxblood-colored leather binding.

  “Now it’s your turn, milord,” she said, closing the books and arranging them into a neat stack. “What discovery have you made?”

  * * *

  Charlotte watched Wrexford recross his legs, a habit she had noted meant he was about to say something he considered important.

  “Actually, I’ve made a number of them. I’ll start with books, too. My trip to Canaday’s estate in Kent proved useful in several r
egards. I obtained access to the library and learned what book matched the catalogue number you found in Holworthy’s hand.” He went on to explain about his search, the Newton manuscript, and the revelation of the three other missing books.

  “Alchemy.” Charlotte said the word very softly and yet its echo seemed to transmute itself into a booming sound that filled the room. She waited a moment, and then added, “It’s clear it’s at the heart of the murders. But how and why still isn’t—”

  “Patience, Mrs. Sloane.” Wrexford held up a hand. “I haven’t finished.”

  She sat back.

  “Yet another revelation—uncovered by a friend of mine—is that Canaday and Holworthy are cousins, and that the baron was lying about what books the reverend had borrowed from him. In truth, knowing that Canaday was in desperate need of money, Holworthy had purchased the four alchemy books for a large sum of money, but reneged on making the last payment.”

  “So you think Canaday murdered him? And that somehow Drummond discovered the fact and was killed to keep him from revealing it?”

  Wrexford shook his head. “No, actually I’m convinced Canaday is not involved in the murders. He hasn’t the nerve for it. Holworthy is at the center of whatever evil is afoot. He took advantage of the fact that the baron was in financial trouble.”

  The earl paused. “By the by, Canaday possesses a magnificent painting by Rembrandt. As an artist, you would have appreciated the exquisite nuances of detail. I’m no expert, but he used lights and darks to create a very powerful portrait of a Dutch burgher in all his glory.”

  Charlotte felt a sudden tightening in her chest. Her heart began to thump against her ribs. “Could you describe it to me?”

  His brows arched in bemusement. “I understand you are passionate about the subject, but given the other pressing concerns, perhaps we should defer a discussion on art until later.”

  “Please. It could be important.”

  Though still looking faintly puzzled, he did as she asked.

  Charlotte quickly fetched a small portfolio from the tiny back room and spread out some pastel sketches on the table. “Was it like this one?”

  She heard a sharp intake of breath.

  “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

  “Good Lord. I think I may know . . .” Charlotte had an idea but it seemed too awful to put into words. And yet, its very smarminess was exactly the reason why it might be right.

  “Know what?” pressed Wrexford.

  “What attracted Stoughton and his friend—I’ve remembered that his name was St. Alban or something like that—to Anthony.”

  Wrexford went very still and his gaze turned shuttered. In the silence, she could almost hear the gears whirring inside his head.

  “Copying masterworks is an exercise many painters do in order to keep their technical skills sharp. It’s a little like a musician playing scales, though the added benefit is that by seeing a subject through the eyes of a great artist one gains a new perspective on creativity.” She studied the sketches, feeling a surge of both sadness and anger well up inside her. “I assumed Anthony was simply copying a painting on display at the Royal Academy. But in this light, it seems like it had a more sinister purpose.”

  “You think he was recruited to forge the painting?”

  “It makes sense of all the things that seemed inexplicable until now.” Charlotte thought back over the hellish last months of her husband’s life. “His long absences, his mental anguish.” She bit her lip. “His guilt. Anthony loved the idealism of art. He would have hated himself for perverting that.”

  “But you said he repeatedly mentioned the word alchemy in his final days,” pointed out Wrexford. “And that he had strange burns on his hands. How do you explain that?”

  “I can’t.” Her hands balled into fists as she thought about the drawing she had made the previous night. “However, I am positive that we’ve discovered part of the answer, and I would bet my life that the other part also lies within the group of miscreants who call themselves The Ancients.”

  He rose and began to pace, the thump-thump of his boots on the rough-planked floor beating an agitated tattoo.

  “Old Masters paintings are worth a great deal of money,” she went on. “A ring who could create superb forgeries of the originals and then sell them to wealthy collectors could have a very profitable business.”

  “I’ve a friend who is acquainted with St. Aubin and says he’s a veritable son of Satan,” he muttered. “So I can well believe he’s mixed up in some havey-cavey business.”

  Wrexford pivoted and retraced his steps. He was a very large man in a very small space—he must feel like one of the caged lions on display at the Tower.

  “Facts.” The earl was frowning. “We need to find the facts that tie alchemy and art together.”

  “And just how do you intend to do that?” It came out a little more sarcastically than she intended. “From what I hear, Bow Street is within a hairsbreadth of arresting you for both murders.”

  “I shall solve this blasted conundrum by taking care that the distance between Mr. Griffin’s grasping hands and my humble self does not get any narrower,” he answered.

  Confident words, bordering on arrogance. Charlotte wondered what it would be like to feel that aura of invincibility. In her experience, the gods did not look kindly on such hubris.

  Still, she found her spirits buoyed by his attitude. “You harp on facts—very well, let us compile a list of them.”

  Paper and pencil was close at hand. Charlotte slid over a sheet of foolscap and wrote two headings at the top, then drew a dividing line down the middle to make two columns. “It seems we have two different conundrums going on. One that concerns art and one that concerns alchemy. Let’s start with art, which seems the simpler one to assess.”

  Together they created a numbered list, based purely on the knowledge they had in hand, not conjecture. Then they moved on to start filling out the second column.

  “There are still some facts about alchemy that I’ve not yet had a chance to mention.” Wrexford turned abruptly and came over to perch a hip on a corner of the table. “My valet and I were able to salvage some charred papers from Drummond’s laboratory and remove them to my town house before Griffin was allowed to examine the room. They caught my eye because a small fragment held a very strange message.”

  He shifted slightly. “It said, ‘the Golden One is the Devil and must be stopped from destroying. . . .’ There was a hole, and then the word dangerous, followed by an abbreviation that we interpreted to mean the philosopher’s stone.”

  “From my readings, I know that the philosopher’s stone lies at the heart of alchemy,” said Charlotte. “It’s the elemental substance that has the power to transmute one material into another, like lead into gold.”

  “Yes,” agreed the earl. “And its exact composition has been the Holy Grail of alchemy for centuries.”

  “But,” she said slowly, “most practitioners agree that mercury has to be one of the key ingredients.”

  Their eyes met and for a moment the air seemed to thrum with an unseen energy.

  Wrexford looked away first. “At first we thought that ‘Golden One’ was a code word for a chemical—possibly sulfur. But on closer inspection of the other scraps, which were magnified under the lens of my microscope, we found the partial remains of what looked to be a letter. This second mention made it clear that Golden One referred to a person.” He made a face. “And before you ask, I’ve set my friend—”

  “Mr. Sheffield?” she interrupted, her curiosity roused by what she had overheard in Berkeley Square.

  “Yes. He’s trustworthy, and in any case, I’ve told him nothing about A. J. Quill’s involvement in my investigation.”

  “And what have you set him to doing?”

  Wrexford made a wry face. “Compiling a list of all members of the Royal Institution who have fair hair.”

  “I suppose that makes perfect sense to think ‘Golden One’ refe
rs to appearance.”

  And yet . . . A niggling thought stirred somewhere in the back of her head, but for the moment it remained naught but a vague shadow within shadows.

  She shook it off. “So on one hand, all the evidence points to an evil chemist who is concocting an unknown substance, most likely containing mercury, in order to destroy an unknown target.”

  “Which is a great deal more than we knew a half hour ago,” quipped the earl.

  “It still leaves us nowhere.”

  He took up the list.

  “And then we have what looks to be a ring of art forgers,” mused Charlotte. “What the devil ties them together?”

  “Holworthy has to be the key,” said Wrexford decisively. He reached for a pencil and some paper. “I need to sit down and think.”

  Hide-and-seek sunlight tangled in his dark hair as he set to work constructing a diagram of connections. Leaving him to the faint scratch of his scribblings, she turned away, suddenly feeling terribly unsettled.

  A part of it had to do with the new revelations about her late husband. Sorrow warred with exasperation, a conflict she had yet to sort out in her own mind. Anthony had been such a perplexing mix of idealism and weakness. That his craving for recognition had allowed him to be seduced into betraying all that art stood for was disappointing.

  But, at heart, she could not say she was completely surprised. His character had been too malleable. He was easily led.

  Was that disloyal to admit?

  Charlotte found she had wandered into the tiny back room that held his easel, his paint box, and the array of powdered pigments and linseed oil used to mix his gorgeous colors. Spiderwebs covered the small mullioned window, the angle of the sun causing the finespun filaments to cast exaggerated shadows over the supplies.

  Art, she reflected, was all about perspective, and the infinite number of ways one could view a subject. Even here, in this cramped space, everything was constantly changing. Color and shading shifted. The air rippled, sending flickers of light undulating over the walls.

  But principles should be unyielding. Integrity had but one form.

  “I forgive you, Anthony,” she whispered.