Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

  He ducked his head. “Sorry. I know it’s wrong te tell a clanker, but we were sworn to secrecy. And a gentleman must always keep his word, right?”

  Like most things in life, honor wasn’t always black and white.

  “We will discuss the fine points of morality at another time,” she answered. “Be that as it may, in this instance it was more the earl’s fault than yours so you are forgiven.”

  Both boys looked relieved.

  “However, I ask that you don’t lie to me in the future. It’s important for us to be able to trust in each other.”

  Looking pensive, Raven nodded.

  His brother responded with fiercer enthusiasm. “I won’t! May I be struck dead and roasted on a spit in hell if I do.”

  “A very noble gesture.” She smiled. “But I don’t require such an extreme sacrifice. I simply ask that you do your best to be a man of honor.”

  “Besides, you wouldn’t be more’n a mouthful fer the Devil,” quipped his brother. “He wouldn’t squibble his time cookin’ you over the coals.”

  “Speaking of meals,” interjected Charlotte. “I’m sure you are famished after all your activities. What say we have a treat of fresh-baked bread, butter, and some gammon for breakfast.”

  Their faces lit up.

  “And eggs?” asked Hawk hopefully.

  “And eggs.” She fetched some coins from the purse in her desk and handed them over.

  “No stopping to play hazard,” she murmured.

  Raven grinned. “Billy does have a new pair of dice an’ he did ask us te come learn the game. So it was only a half lie, m’lady.”

  Dear Lord, what a frightful little Sophist he was becoming.

  “Run along,” she shot back. “Before I decide you only deserve a half portion of breakfast for your cheekiness.”

  The lads scampered off, and though Charlotte was weary to the bone, she knew that sleep would be slow to come. Instead she took a seat at her desk and set a fresh sheet of paper atop the blotter.

  Her fingers instinctively sought the pen. However hopelessly tangled her personal emotions became in thought or words, her commentary on Society’s inequalities and injustices seemed to flow with a crisp clarity in her art. Bold strokes of ink, confident colors—through line and paint she had the ability to cut to the heart of an issue. It was, she knew, a flaw, a fundamental contradiction in character.

  How could she be both weak and strong?

  Even Wrexford, with his relentless logic, would likely have no answer to the conundrum. He would find that bedeviling, while in contrast, she did not expect to have rational answers for everything.

  Which no doubt explained the drawing that was taking place as she was trying to parse the conflicting sides of her nature.

  Charlotte stared at the outlines of the sketch with a rueful smile. She was angry with Wrexford, and yet her sense of justice demanded that she use her influence with the public to raise the question of his innocence. Hints about the Runner’s judgment, and his incompetence in missing telltale clues, would play very well to the vast majority of people who mistrusted the authorities.

  Perhaps he didn’t need her help.

  A quick flurry of lines and cross-hatching and she leaned back, satisfied with the composition. All that was left to do was paint in the color highlights and write a provocative caption.

  Once the lads were finished with their breakfast, she would send them off to the print shop with the finished drawing.

  * * *

  “So that means the mystery is solved concerning the art forgeries and their connection to Holworthy’s murder?” asked Tyler. The earl had just finished giving a terse account of the confrontation and was pouring himself a glass of Scottish malt.

  “Yes.” After an appreciative sip, Wrexford held the dark amber spirits up to the light. “You know, the ancient Gaelic name for this is uisge beatha, which means spirit of life. Wise men, your fellow Scots. And brilliant alchemists.” He pursed his lips. “Here Holworthy was obsessively chasing after the philosopher’s stone and its transcendent power to raise the soul to a higher plane when all he had to do was uncork a bottle of whisky.”

  “In all fairness, I should point out that the Irish claim it was they who first brewed the magical elixir,” murmured the valet. “Be that as it may, you are digressing from the matter at hand. I assume you will be heading to Bow Street shortly to present the proof of your innocence and Lowell’s guilt. Shall I pack up the vial of the remaining chemical sample in cotton wool and a sturdy box?”

  “Proof?” Wrexford finished the rest of his whisky in one smooth swallow. “What we have is a fanciful story, based on scraps of evidence that a clever villain could easily have manufactured. As for corroboration, there is only the word of reprobate swindlers—assuming they haven’t already fled the country—who would sell their virgin sisters to the brothel in order to save their own skins.”

  He shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Griffin, while a thoroughly annoying fellow for his lack of imagination, has been meticulous in assessing the physical evidence. His conclusion is logical.”

  “But the library mark that Mrs. Sloane found in Holworthy’s hand,” protested Tyler. “And the footprint she saw in the church.”

  “Unfortunately, those things had disappeared from the scene of the crime by the time Griffin got there,” pointed out the earl. “I doubt he is going to take her word for it.”

  “Surely you don’t intend to do nothing?”

  “Come, you know what an indolent fellow I am.” Wrexford took down several books from the shelves above the work counter. “But in this case, no. It greatly offends what few moral sensibilities I possess that Lowell has perverted science to serve his own nefarious plan. So I feel obliged to stop him.”

  “How, if I might ask?” said Tyler as he watched the earl take a seat at the microscope.

  Preoccupied with his own thoughts, Wrexford didn’t take any heed of the question. “Have you had any luck in identifying the elements in Lowell’s chemical compound?”

  “All but two. The list is there beside the reflector. It’s the clear crystals and the greenish substance that are proving devilishly elusive.”

  Wrexford read over the paper. “Bring over a selection of acids. I wish to run a few more tests. An idea occurred to me when I thought more about Forsyth and the problem he had with his original percussion cap. . . .” He twirled the instrument’s dials, increasing the magnification of the sample.

  Tyler assembled the bottles, along with a selection of empty glass vials. “You still haven’t answered my question as to how you intend to stop Lowell.” He set the tray down on the worktable. “Forgive me for pointing it out, but it seems there are more pressing things to be doing at this moment. Why are you spending time analyzing the compound?”

  “Because I am curious.” The earl squinted into the lens and adjusted the reflectors. Charlotte would likely also say it was because he was trusting his intuition. “Move the lamp a bit to the left.”

  The polished metal caught the light and angled a brighter beam onto the slide.

  “And knowing the exact science behind his creation may help in understanding exactly what he is up to.”

  Tyler made a skeptical face.

  “It also may help pinpoint the location of Lowell’s secret laboratory. That’s the key to ending this—if we can lead Griffin to where he is working, the evidence will speak for itself.”

  The earl leaned back. “Put a bit of the remaining sample in one of the testing vials and add one drop of spirits of salt.”

  They both watched intently as the liquid fell onto the powder.

  “Nothing,” murmured Tyler after a long moment.

  “Excellent.”

  “You are pleased?”

  “Exceedingly,” answered Wrexford. “Attach the adapter to the lens and I shall show you why.”

  The procedure increased the microscope’s power of magnification. The earl refocused on
the sample and gestured for Tyler to take a look.

  “What does the greenish powder look like to you?”

  The valet hesitated. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was ground glass.”

  “Sometimes the most obvious answer is the correct one,” answered Wrexford. “I suddenly remembered reading an obscure text by Newton on the properties of glass, and how it could serve as a stabilizing substance.” He contemplated the sample in the vial. “I think we can safely speculate that Lowell has come up with a formula for an improved mercury fulminate that may be used in practical applications.” A pause. “Such as weaponry.”

  Tyler let out a low whistle.

  “One other thing—that particular shade of green is typical of wine bottles from the Rhine Valley near Mainz.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right—identifying the last ingredient can wait. Right now, I want you to start checking on whether there are any warehouses here in London that are used by German importers from that region.”

  “Yes, milord!”

  “While you are engaged in that task, I will pay a visit to Mrs. Sloane,” went on Wrexford, “and see if she can remember any details from her husband’s last days that might indicate where he was working.” Fatigue gave way to a rising sense of anticipation. “I think we’re closing in on the bloody devil.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Given the events of the past evening, isn’t it rather early for you to be up and about, Lord Wrexford?”

  “I could ask the same of you, Mrs. Sloane,” he replied dryly. When she didn’t move from blocking the doorway, he added, “Might I come in? Or am I persona non grata for corrupting the tender morals of children?”

  Heaving an inward sigh, Charlotte stepped back into the foyer and gestured for him to enter. It was ungracious to feel angry with him. She would never have learned the truth about Anthony without his resolve and resourcefulness.

  But perhaps that was part of her mixed emotions. She didn’t like feeling beholden to anyone.

  “I thought aristocrats never rose until well after noon,” she murmured as he followed her into the main room.

  “By now you should know I rarely do what is expected of me. A flaw, I know, but there you have it.”

  She relented and allowed a faint smile. “I neglected to thank you for your efforts. You were impressively intimidating, sir. Had I been facing your fearsome phiz, I would have been quaking in my boots.”

  “Bollocks,” quipped Wrexford. “You have never been the least intimidated by me. It’s very lowering.” He looked around. “Where are the weasels? Sleeping the blissful sleep of Innocents?”

  She strangled a laugh. “You really must stop calling them that. They are no worse than other lads their age.”

  “No other lads their age would dare stab me in the leg, or cosh me on the head with a bottle.” He was smiling. “But I admit, they are clever little beasts.”

  “As for where they are,” Charlotte explained, “I’ve sent them out on an errand.” She decided not to mention the new drawing they were taking to Fores’s print shop. No reason to provoke an argument.

  Wrexford stopped and sniffed the air. “But not before they had an excellent breakfast. Eggs and gammon, by the scent of it.” His gaze strayed to the half-finished loaf on the table and held there. “Lucky lads. I, on the other hand, left my house without so much as a crust of bread.”

  “Surely you have a cook at your beck and call.”

  “Alas, unlike me he keeps lordly hours. But then, there is no rest for the wicked.”

  Impossible man. Charlotte wasn’t yet sure whether he took anything seriously.

  But she did owe him a debt of thanks.

  “Sit. I assume you have something you wish to discuss, so we might as well talk while you eat.” Charlotte moved to the stove and set a frying pan on the hob. The familiar ritual of cooking would help ease the awkwardness of finishing her thanks. It would be easier to leave the words unsaid, but she prided herself on not shirking from unpleasant truths.

  At least she could do it with her back turned to him. “I still do not condone your having enlisted Raven and Hawk in such a dangerous plan without first consulting me.” Crack, crack—two eggs plopped onto the cast iron, setting off a satisfying sizzle in the grease from the frying gammon. “But your actions, however unorthodox, served to cut through the knot of unanswered questions regarding both your conundrum and mine. I . . . am grateful for your help in learning the truth.”

  She added several slices of bread to the pan. “And for the meting out a degree of justice for what was done to Anthony. Revenge may be an ugly sentiment, but it gives me a measure of satisfaction to know his tormentors have not gone unpunished.”

  The eggs bubbled and turned brown around the edges. Charlotte slid them onto a plate, along with the crisped meat and bread. “My husband was naive, and perhaps not as strong as he should have been. But that isn’t a crime that deserves the penalty of death.”

  Wrexford accepted his breakfast without comment and dug in with gusto. She busied herself making tea, unsure whether to feel relieved or piqued at his silence.

  Words or no, Charlotte was acutely aware of his presence in the room. The dappling of early morning light, the creak of a chair, the cozy click of cutlery—there hadn’t been a man sharing the mundane moments of everyday life here since Anthony died. The same, and yet so different. There was a devil-may-care grace to Wrexford. He was comfortable with who he was, and that confidence radiated from every pore.

  Was it disloyal to notice? Repressing a guilty twinge, she poured boiling water over the tea leaves. It was merely a dispassionate observation. As A. J. Quill, she had learned to look at the world around her with unflinching honesty.

  “Do you take sugar?” Steam curled up from the spout as she placed the pot on the table.

  “No.” He looked up. “I am not a man who requires any sweetness.”

  An oblique message? Charlotte noted a fleeting glimmer in his eyes but it was gone too quickly for her to read.

  The earl went back to soaking up the remaining yolk of his eggs with a bit of bread. And yet he must have sensed her indecision, for a moment later he added, “We’ve both helped each other, Mrs. Sloane. The ledger is balanced—you need not be distressed by thoughts that you owe me a debt of gratitude.”

  “I . . .” She took up a cloth and wiped away some errant crumbs.

  “Now that we’ve settled accounts, we have more important things to discuss.” Cutting off any further talk of personal matters, he quickly explained about identifying the ground green glass in Lowell’s compound.

  “Will you take all this to the Runner? The evidence now seems overwhelming as to who is responsible for the murders.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t wish to take the chance that Griffin will interpret things differently. Time is of the essence. It’s imperative for us to locate the secret laboratory, not only to catch Lowell in the act, but also to prevent him from accomplishing his ultimate objective. To that end, I have Tyler searching for any information on German wine warehouses.”

  He set down his fork and propped his elbows on the table. “I need you to think very carefully, Mrs. Sloane. Is there anything you remember about your husband that would give us a clue as to where he was working?”

  The question caused her chest to clench. She had been so concerned with Anthony’s mental state that it had never occurred to her to wonder about anything else. She had, until last night’s revelation, simply assumed he had been telling the truth about spending his time away from home at the clubhouse of The Ancients.

  Now who is the naïve fool?

  Charlotte mutely shook her head.

  “Come, you have a rare gift for noticing the small details,” he pressed. “You’ve seen something. You just have to remember it.”

  She forced herself to think back on those terrible days. But her brain refused to focus. The only image in her mind’s eye was a spinning, swirling blur of shapes and c
olors.

  Her stomach lurched, and she felt the sour taste of bile rise in her throat.

  “Mrs. Sloane.” Henning’s rough-cut burr penetrated the front door, saving Charlotte from her failure. “We need to talk.”

  She hurried to allow the surgeon entrance.

  Sheffield was with him, his look of grim concern lightening somewhat on spotting the earl. “Thank God you’re here. Tyler sent me to warn you,” he said in a rush. “You can’t return home. Griffin is waiting there—with a warrant for your arrest.”

  * * *

  “Bloody hell,” swore Wrexford. “Just when the pieces of this infernal puzzle have finally come together.” Frowning in thought, he asked, “Did Griffin give a reason? I doubt he would have dared make the move without some new piece of evidence.”

  “He said he has an incriminating letter,” answered Sheffield. “One addressed to the Institution’s board of governors in which Drummond says he overheard you admitting that you had lured Holworthy to the church in order to silence his attacks on you. It seems that Lowell found it behind the work counter when he was supervising the carpentry repairs to the fire damage.”

  “Diabolically clever of him,” muttered Wrexford. “He just needs to keep Griffin occupied until he’s made his final move.”

  “Any idea what that might be, laddie?” asked Henning.

  “No,” he conceded.

  Sheffield cleared his throat. “As to that, I’ve been thinking—an admittedly rare occurrence, I know—and an idea came to mind.”

  Wrexford shifted impatiently. “Go on.”

  “Well, there was a lecturer of logic at Oxford who used to repeat an old Latin adage when trying to solve a certain type of conundrum: Cui bono.

  “Who benefits?” murmured Charlotte.

  The earl stopped his fidgeting.

  “Yes, precisely, Mrs. Sloane,” agreed Sheffield, giving her a quick, curious look before going on. “So I asked myself the same question in regard to a percussion cap for firing weapons, and the obvious answer is the military.”