Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

  Wrexford’s voice rose again to silence her own inner whispers. “Here’s what I think, lad. One should never bargain with blackguards. Draw your pistol and shove it up against the skull of one of these miserable muckworms. Start with Stoughton.”

  A wordless cry of pure, primal fear.

  “We’ll give him to the count of three to start talking or go ahead and spatter his brains over the bust of Aristotle.”

  “I’ve a better idea.” Keeping his pistol aimed at St. Aubin’s heart, Sheffield edged around the fancy furniture to pick up the double-barreled pistol from the carpet. “Use this one. It will save the bother of reloading. And the authorities will simply assume that they came to blows over some personal matter.” A flash of teeth—not meant to be a smile. “Not a soul will mourn their passing.”

  “You won’t—you can’t!” blustered St. Aubin.

  In answer, Sheffield moved and handed the weapon to her. “Have at it, lad. I rather hope they keep their jaws locked.”

  Charlotte thumbed back one of the hammers. The click sounded unnaturally loud in the dead silence. No doubt it was evil of her, but she felt a spurt of savage satisfaction as she shoved the short metal snout up against Stoughton’s temple.

  His eyes were closed, and his body was trembling uncontrollably.

  “One,” intoned Wrexford.

  “They’re bluffing!” cried St. Aubin.

  “Two.”

  “Wait! Please!” Tears were now streaming down Stoughton’s ashen face. A pitiable sight, though Charlotte could muster no compassion. “I’ll tell you everything!”

  “Go on,” ordered the earl. “But if I scent a whiff of a lie, I shall counsel the lad to be done with listening.”

  The story was quick to spew out. “It was by mere chance that I encountered Sloane in Rome,” began Stoughton. “I was accompanying a friend on the Grand Tour—”

  “You mean leeching off a friend, to escape creditors here in England,” cut in Sheffield. “Yes, I heard the story from Milton.”

  “Bloody hell, you know how it is, being a second son with no blunt to cut a decent dash here in Town.”

  “No more interruptions, Sheff,” counseled Wrexford. To Stoughton he added, “We care only for the facts, not your whinging.”

  “Before I left England, Canaday and I were commiserating on how hard it was to keep from sinking into debt—The River Tick has a strong current and is damnable deep. And so much of a man’s wealth is entailed in the estate,” continued Stoughton. “Canaday was especially upset about the moldering paintings hanging on his walls. They would bring a fortune if he were free to sell them. We talked about the need to be . . . creative in ways to fill one’s coffers.”

  Or criminal, thought Charlotte.

  “I saw right away from his copies of Italian masterpieces that Sloane possessed a remarkable artistic talent—and it soon became clear that he yearned to return to England and win recognition for his own original art. So I had an idea.”

  He paused to clear his throat with a raspy cough. “Brandy—I need some brandy.”

  Sheffield wordlessly fetched a glass of spirits.

  Stoughton gulped down a swallow and then resumed his story. “It seemed to me that we could both help each other. So I offered to pay his way home. His wife presented a problem as she was a cold, calculating termagant. Try as I might, I couldn’t get her to warm to the idea, though a woman of her low birth should have been flattered by any attention from a gentleman. But Sloane finally prevailed.”

  Another thirsty gulp. The glass was now empty. “Once he arrived back in England, I introduced Sloane to Canaday and”—a nervous glance at St. Aubin—“and other gentlemen who might be useful to him.”

  Or, rather, to gentlemen who would use him for their own purposes, thought Charlotte. Anthony, at heart an innocent, could not see guile in others.

  “So far I’ve heard nothing that might serve as a bargaining chip for your life, worthless though it is,” said Wrexford.

  The warning spurred Stoughton on. “We had the connection to introduce Sloane to people who might help him gain admittance to the Royal Academy.”

  But you didn’t.

  “In return, all we asked was for him to copy some of Canaday’s Old Masters paintings—no hardship to him, as he did it as an artistic exercise to keep his skills sharp. St. Aubin and I had friends on the Continent through whom we discreetly brokered the sale of the baron’s paintings to several collectors in the German principalities. The copies were inserted into the original ornate frames, and Canaday kept the real paintings and shared his profits with the two of us.”

  “Sloane received no money for his labors?” interjected Wrexford.

  Stoughton blotted his brow with his sleeve. “H-He received our patronage, which he felt was more v-valuable than a p-price for his paintings. It was all a very agreeable arrangement until—”

  A feral growl from St. Aubin made him pause.

  “U-Until he fell ill,” finished Stoughton lamely.

  “You’re diddling us with half-truths,” exclaimed the earl in disgust.

  “The English courts have no call to charge us with a crime,” began Stoughton.

  “Be damned with playing cat and mouse. Pull the trigger, lad.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Had he miscalculated? For an instant, Wrexford feared that Charlotte was going to obey his order. Her eyes were hidden by the crescent sweep of her hat, but a terrible grimness had hardened the curves of her mouth.

  Her finger tightened, a barely perceptible twitch of pale flesh on gunmetal grey.

  “No!” screamed Stoughton. “That’s God’s own truth about the art copies, I swear it. But yes, there’s more concerning Sloane’s death and I was just about to tell you about it.” With a swindler’s instinct for self-preservation, he sought to distance himself from his partner in crime. “It was all St. Aubin’s fault! He and Canaday went too far!”

  The earl held his breath. Charlotte had every reason to act the avenging angel, but he sensed she would deeply regret it.

  St. Aubin lunged at his companion, but Sheffield caught his collar and held him back.

  “Hold off, lad,” murmured Wrexford.

  She slowly eased back the pistol from Stoughton’s temple. Its pressure had left a red O imprinted on his skin.

  “You had better pray that this time you are convincing,” added Wrexford.

  “Sloane used one of the back rooms of the clubhouse to make his first copy, but after that, Canaday decided it was too risky to continue working here. He arranged for a place somewhere in the stews. That was when Sloane suddenly took a turn for the worse.”

  “Where?” demanded Wrexford.

  “I don’t know!” Stoughton edged to his end of the sofa. “But St. Aubin does. I know that he and Holworthy were involved in a scheme to steal books from Cambridge University.” A triumphant glitter flashed in his eyes as he looked at his companion. “And I overheard the reverend demand that Canaday share the space with him as he, too, needed a private place in which to work.”

  “Lies!” insisted St. Aubin, but the arrogance was fast leaching out of his voice. “The sniveling rat is just trying to save his own skin.”

  “Canaday tried to say no.” Stoughton was speaking in a rush. “But Holworthy had discovered what the baron was doing with his paintings and threatened to expose it.”

  That explained a good deal, thought Wrexford. And yet . . .

  “What sort of work did Holworthy need to do?”

  “He didn’t say, though he spouted some habble-gabble about how Canaday would be sorry he had turned down the chance to discover the secret to immortality. It involved some sort of religious nonsense—he was babbling about philosophy and stones,” responded Stoughton. “Ask St. Aubin! He was up to his neck in whatever intrigue the reverend was up to.”

  God Almighty, has the last piece of the puzzle finally fallen into place?

  “Yet more lies!” St. Aubin’s face blazed scarlet
in anger, but beneath the color an ashen tinge was creeping along the ridge of his cheekbones. His voice was now brittle as broken glass.

  “I think Stoughton is telling the truth this time.” Wrexford gestured with his own weapon at St. Aubin. “What say you, Sheff? You look tired of holding the bastard. Shall we just have the lad blow his brains out and be done with it? We know all we need to know.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” insisted St. Aubin. “I didn’t steal the books for Holworthy. I’ll tell you who it was, but in return, you must promise—word of a gentleman—that you’ll release me unharmed.”

  “Very well, you have my word.” Wrexford slowly smiled. “But we both know that despite our gilded pedigrees, neither of us are gentlemen, so my word isn’t worth a vial of piss.”

  St. Aubin sucked in a shallow breath. The pulse point at his throat was racing erratically.

  “Still, if I were you, I would take the gamble that I keep my pledge. After all, what do you have to lose? Stay silent and the lad gets to scratch his itchy finger for sure.”

  St. Aubin slanted a furtive look at Charlotte, who had stepped back into the yawing shadows cast by the table lamp. Tangled in the tentacles of dark and light, her silhouette had an otherworldy menace to it. And then all of his bluster leaked out in a ragged exhale.

  “Lowell,” he whispered. “I stole the books for Declan Lowell. He knew I could get access through my brother to a special library archive at Cambridge.”

  “Which college?” asked Wrexford, though he was sure he knew the answer.

  “Trinity,” answered St. Aubin, confirming the surmise.

  An institution whose illustrious alumni included Sir Isaac Newton.

  “But I can’t tell you for what purpose,” he hurriedly added. “Lowell gave me two titles and paid me very well. I didn’t ask why.”

  “What titles?” demanded Wrexford.

  “A manuscript by Newton and a chemistry manual by someone with an unpronounceable name.”

  “Eirenaeus Philalethes?” suggested the earl.

  “Yes—that sounds right.”

  “I think you’re lying about not knowing what he was working on,” said Wrexford flatly. “And without that piece of the puzzle your information is worthless to me.”

  “I’m not!” St. Aubin was beginning to sweat. “Yes, Lowell and I were friends, but he was becoming increasingly obsessive and . . . well, I knew of his penchant for violence. It’s a great secret, but as a student, he caused the death of a fellow student in one of his laboratory experiments. The scandal was covered up by his family—and Lowell left the country for a year for it to blow over.”

  He swallowed hard. “Somehow Holworthy learned about his skills and hired Lowell for some sort of bizarre alchemy experiment to transmute the soul! But I swear to God that’s all I know. Whatever he was actually working on was knowledge I didn’t care to have.”

  That Wrexford could well believe. Men like St. Aubin had a finely honed sense of self-preservation.

  He looked to Charlotte. “I think we’ve learned all that we came here for.” And perhaps more. He now had an inkling of why Anthony Sloane had died. “Shall I keep my word? Or do you wish to extract your pound of flesh?”

  A hesitation, so slight that if he hadn’t come to know her subtle signs, he might have missed it. And then, in answer, she slid St. Aubin’s weapon into her pocket.

  Stoughton slumped back against the cushions with a groan of relief.

  St. Aubin lost no time in rising, but the earl moved to block his path to the doorway. “Not so fast. I promised you could leave unharmed. I said nothing about going away unpunished.”

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  “Listen carefully. I am about to explain,” replied Wrexford. “You and Stoughton will step outside, flag down a hackney, and have it take you to Blackwell.”

  “B-Blackwell?” stammered Stoughton.

  “The East India dockyard,” clarified the earl. “Where you will take passage on the first ship sailing east to India.”

  “Travel half a world away to a godforsaken, primitive country full of pestilence and heathen savages?” said St. Aubin. He chuffed an uncertain laugh. “Why on earth would we do that?”

  “Because, if you are still on English soil by noon tomorrow, I will hunt you down for the vermin you are, and see that you hang along with Lowell, who will soon be arrested for the murders of Holworthy and Drummond. There’s now enough evidence to prove you were accomplices to those crimes, as well as the sordid business of Sloane’s death and the art forgeries.”

  “You’re bluffing,” rasped St. Aubin.

  True. But he doubted the fellow had the nerve to call him out on it. “Then let us put our cards down on the table and see who holds the winning hand.”

  Stoughton staggered to his feet. “I’ve no friends, no connections in India,” he said in a piteous whine. “What will I do?”

  “You’ll find a way to survive. Which is more than can be said if you choose to stay here,” replied Wrexford. “For if the courts don’t sentence you to death, I’ll take it upon myself to mete out justice.”

  “For God’s sake, show some mercy!”

  “I’m showing you more than was shown to Anthony Sloane.” He flicked his pistol. “I suggest you get out of my sight before I change my mind.”

  As Stoughton stumbled for the door, the earl turned to St. Aubin. “The clock is ticking. Or do you really fancy your chances at beating me at this game?”

  Their gazes locked for a long moment, hatred darkening the other man’s irises to pure black. But St. Aubin’s bravado had already proved to be an empty shell. After spitting out a venomous oath, he let his eyes slide away.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Fists clenched in impotent fury, St. Aubin stalked off after his coconspirator, trailed by Sheffield’s parting jeer. “As you see, a cowardly cur never plays unless he’s sure he knows how to cheat the odds.”

  The heavy oak portals fell closed, muffling the doleful tread of retreating footsteps.

  “I would be willing to wager that one of them murders the other before their ship rounds the Cape of Good Hope,” added Sheffield with a hint of ghoulish glee.

  “For once you might actually win some money,” quipped Wrexford, hoping humor might lessen the tension in the room. Charlotte had shifted even farther into the coal-dark shadows. Withdrawing into herself? Her shape was nearly lost in the amorphous shades of grey.

  “Mrs. Sloane,” he called softly. “My apologies for improvising. It was, I realize, waltzing along a razor’s edge—”

  “No need for an apology on improvising, Lord Wrexford. It is a dance I do daily,” she replied. “You’ve proved extremely adept at it tonight.” A tiny pause. “Especially for a man of science, who values precision above all else.”

  There were meanings within meanings entangled in the short statement. He was too tired to try to unknot them.

  “As you’ve pointed out, at times intuition must overrule intellect.”

  “So it must,” she said blandly. The lamp was burning low. A sudden last flare painted her upturned face in a reddish glow, and then with a hiss and spark the flame went out, leaving them in the dark.

  “We ought to be going.” Her disembodied voice floated through the gloom.

  There was nothing more for them here, agreed Wrexford. He turned and silently led the way back the way they had come.

  “Mrs. Sloane, we ought to escort you home,” began Sheffield as they filed through the narrow opening into the back alleyway. But as he turned, there was only a shiver of mist-shrouded shadows behind him.

  “Damnation, she ought not be out on the streets alone—”

  “Let her go, Sheff.” A fitful breeze tugged at Wrexford’s words, swirling them into the other night sounds. “It’s not for us to say what she can and cannot do.”

  * * *

  Her steps guided more by instinct than any conscious effort, Charlotte made her way through th
e labyrinth of byways back to the fringes of St. Giles. Strangely enough, a search of all her most vulnerable places found only a dull numbness. She had imagined that retribution would feel better than that.

  Choices, choices. Could one truly choose to unwind the grip of guilt, of sorrow, and put them in the past? Or was it ruled by its own elaborate alchemy, an indefinable mix and measure of ingredients that defied mortal longings?

  Wrexford would have an opinion. A sardonic one, no doubt.

  Ah, but Wrexford was yet another complicated alchemy. At the moment Charlotte had not yet decided how she felt about his actions. Presumptuous, yes, but he had, through sheer force of will, helped reach a point of resolution and redemption.

  She should feel gratitude, not resentment.

  The sensation of relief was also sharp, but in a way she didn’t expect. Not that any of her emotions were making sense.

  The streets had turned narrower and muddier, the sweetness of Mayfair giving way to the less salubrious scents of St. Giles. Darkness pinched in from all angles, the crooked buildings and overhanging roofs crowding out the weak starlight. But as she reached a fork in the way, Charlotte felt a small frisson tickle over her shoulders, as if the weight of past mistakes might be shifting. Perhaps—just perhaps—it was possible to shed old burdens, to forge new paths.

  Hope, however, was a two-edged sword, a dangerous weapon in careless hands. Those who chose to wield it must always be on guard.

  Dawn was softening the night sky by the time she arrived at her door and let herself in.

  Raven was curled up by the stove, a blanket snugged around his shoulders. But by how quickly he sat up as she relocked the door, it was clear he hadn’t been sleeping.

  “The streets are dangerous at night, m’lady,” he chided. “You shouldn’t be scarpering around alone.”

  “That’s rather the pot calling the kettle black,” replied Charlotte.

  “Aye, we wuz out,” chimed in Hawk. “That’s because . . .” He looked to his brother.

  “That’s because Billy Black Hat has a new set of ivories,” said Raven without hesitation. “And he was keen to teach us te play hazard.”

  “Actually, it’s because Lord Wrexford asked you to create a disturbance at the Royal Institution,” she countered, deciding to dispel with any shilly-shallying around the events of the night.