Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

  “They did,” answered Lowell. “I will soon be rich beyond my wildest dreams. Let that be a lesson to England and its unfair inheritance system, which gives all the prestige and money to eldest sons, leaving the others to scavenge for pennies and a scrap of respect.”

  Hubris and greed. Was there a more volatile combination?

  “You’re a man of intelligence,” added Lowell. “Surely you agree that a man ought to be rewarded for his talents, not simply an accident of birth.”

  Put that way, it sounded so reasonable. But then, Lucifer was known for his seductively smooth tongue.

  “Even when such talents include slitting throats and beating children?” he replied.

  “Advances in science often demand great sacrifice.”

  As long as it is the blood of others, thought Wrexford. “We could parse the fine points of morality until Doomsday.”

  “Unfortunately, I’ve no time for that, thanks to you and that gadfly Quill.” Lowell gave a curt flick of his weapon. “Enough chin wagging. I admit, it was ungentlemanly of me to strike the brat. I lost my temper, but it was A. J. Quill’s fault. She’s even more cynical than I thought. And by sacrificing the gutter scum to keep her pen pointed at me, she’s forcing me to move more quickly than I had wanted.”

  “I’m still curious about one thing. Quill’s husband—the artist working here—why kill him?”

  “Simple. He was here often enough that he might have seen me slipping into the laboratory. And I suspected he had been snooping around in the cellars. I couldn’t take a chance of him gabbling about it.”

  “How did you poison him?”

  “Another easy answer. There are a number of hidden passageways in this building. I set up a small burner by a ventilation shaft in his workroom and sent a steady stream of mercury fumes into the space. It quickly addled his wits.” Lowell smiled. “For good measure, I switched oil of vitriol for the turpentine he used to clean his brushes. The burns spooked him from coming back.”

  “Clever,” murmured Wrexford. “But you didn’t anticipate that his wife would prove an even greater danger, did you?”

  A huff of annoyance slipped from his lips. “The two of you have caused a great deal of trouble by upsetting the timing of my plans. But her ink will soon run dry. As for the brat, he’s no use to me anymore, and since I have to kill you, I may as well do away with both of you at the same time. She’ll be next.”

  “Just one last question,” said the earl, dutifully turning to march back to the storage area, satisfied that he had gained the boy enough time to be out of harm’s reach. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Physics, my dear Wrexford! Newton was, among other things, a serious student of light,” said Lowell, looking extremely amused at his own cleverness. “I saw the reflection of you overhead in the metal casing of my lantern.” They passed through the two doors. “Oh, and in case you are wondering how I know the imp of Satan is still tied to the chair, I spotted a knife that had fallen atop a stack of burlap sacks. It had to be yours, as it wasn’t there this morning.”

  He laughed again. “You were not half bad at solving intellectual conundrums, but as a knight in shining armor, you’ve proved to be a bumbling fool.”

  “So it would seem,” affirmed the earl.

  Lowell’s mirth proved short-lived. A vicious oath rent the air as he looked into the alcove and spotted the empty chair.

  “How—” he began.

  Wrexford turned to face him. “Poof! It was alchemy, my dear Golden One, not physics. Newton was, among other things, a religious fanatic who spent much of his time dabbling in the occult!” He knew he was playing with fire. Lowell’s trigger hand was now quivering with fury, but he hoped to use the man’s overweening pride and nervous anger against him.

  “I used an ancient unraveling incantation,” he said, goading his captor to lose his temper. “And a black magic levitation spell.”

  Lowell clenched his free hand in a fist and swung at the earl’s head.

  Wrexford was ready. Ducking away, he grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted hard.

  Lowell screamed in pain.

  In the same movement, he slammed his knee into Lowell’s thigh, buckling the man’s leg. “It’s far easier to attack a helpless child, isn’t it?” The pistol fell to the floor and skittered off into the gloom.

  Wrenching his hand free, Lowell stumbled back a step.

  “I may be a bumbling fool, but you don’t really think I was stupid enough to come here alone, do you? Now that the lad is free, the authorities will be moving in.” Artistic license, but no doubt Charlotte would approve. He snapped open Hawk’s pocketknife. “The game is over, Golden One.”

  A hesitation, and a hand waved in surrender. The distraction was only for an instant, but at the same time Lowell spun around and raced for the still-open door.

  Wrexford was right on his heels, but the other man was too quick. He lost ground in the short corridor, just enough that Lowell reached the laboratory first and managed to slam the portal shut in his face.

  He heard the key turn in the lock.

  Damnation. The building was riddled with passageways, and many of the old warehouses in this part of Town were interconnected by way of the cellars. If Golden One managed to slip away and reach the subterranean labyrinth, he and his deadly formula might very well escape to France.

  Spotting his pistol on the floor, he grabbed it up. Pulling the vial of Lowell’s chemical from his inner pocket he wrenched off the top and sprinkled some of the powder between the latch and the molding. He then stepped back, took close aim at the door, and, turning away to shield his face, pulled the trigger.

  The wood exploded in a welter of flying splinters, one of them cutting a gash across his temple. A kick loosened the bolt. Another, and then another. On the fourth, the door sprang free. The earl burst in, just in time to see Lowell stuff some papers and a metal flask into his pocket and dart into a side alcove.

  He shoved aside a work cart on wheels, sending a rack of glass vials crashing to the floor. Broken glass crunched under his boots as he sprinted after his quarry.

  Thank God for the thick soles.

  In the alcove was a half-open paneled door, revealing a narrow circular iron staircase that led up into darkness. Hearing rapid-fire steps above him, Wrexford plunged in, taking the treads two at a time. Up, up, up he went, feet pounding at a dizzying pace. He heard another door open and shut. The stairs made one more turn and ended abruptly on a small landing.

  Sensing he was catching up, the earl lowered his shoulder and barreled through the wood paneling at a run.

  Lowell was only a dozen strides ahead of him, and looked to be limping. He looked back, and seeing that the distance between them was narrowing, he suddenly cut to his right and disappeared behind a billowing sheet of canvas.

  “Damn,” muttered Wrexford, taking a moment to assess his surroundings. The chase had brought them to the top floor of the warehouse, a cavernous space that stretched the full length of the building. It was crammed with aisle upon aisle of old mining supplies—the detritus of Canaday’s failed business venture? In this row, racks of ghostly pale tarps fluttered in a gust of air let in through a broken windowpane.

  He slowed his steps and shifted his weight to the balls of his feet.

  Flap, flap, flap. He didn’t need the whispered warnings to stay alert.

  At the next gap, he turned to make his way to a less cluttered vantage point. Halfway along the line, the rasp of metal on metal sounded for just an instant. Wrexford ducked, just as a pickaxe tore through the canvas, smashing the wooden frame overhead. Spinning sideways, he pushed through the tangle and lunged for Lowell. He caught the chemist’s wrist but Lowell twisted and hammered a hard blow to his hand.

  His fingers slipped and Golden One darted away.

  “Give it up!” shouted the earl, kicking aside the wreckage. “I’m not going to let you get away.”

  Silence. And then the faint creak of the floor
ing betrayed a stealthy step, moving for the far side of the room. Lowell knew the layout of the building by heart and must have an escape route in mind.

  Ducking low, Wrexford used a row of nail barrels as cover to cut ahead to another aisle. A flicker of moonlight showed Lowell lifting a trapdoor in the floor.

  Snakes were by their very nature drawn to dark holes.

  Shooting to his feet, he hurdled the barrels and sprinted for the opening, only to have the hatch fall shut while he was still several strides away. Be damned with Lowell’s serpentine tricks. Fatigue gave way to a grim resolve to play the mongoose.

  Wrexford wrenched it open and grabbed hold of the iron ladder. He heard the scrabbling of a slip and a curse float up from the void. Golden One’s endurance was flagging. Fear quickly sucked away bluster and bravado, leaving only the bare bones of what a man was made of.

  Glancing down, the earl saw a faint square of hazy light below his feet.

  A thump signaled that Lowell had dropped down through the opening. Wrexford gritted his teeth and let go of the rung. One . . . two . . . at three heartbeats his feet hit the floor and he threw himself into a defensive roll, just as Lowell heaved an open bottle of turpentine at his face. It shattered on the floor, the caustic liquid spraying harmlessly over the planking.

  Wrexford realized he was back in the art storage room. Crawling quickly around the paint cans, he rose to block the door just as Lowell rounded a jumble of easels.

  “There’s no escape, Golden One.”

  Lowell drew in a ragged gulp of air and retreated a step. He had grabbed an artist’s penknife and for several moments they moved warily, mirroring each other’s movements through the slanting shadows of the storage shelves. The only sound was the scuff of leather sliding over wood.

  Or was that a whisper of panic seeping into Lowell’s breathing?

  Wrexford made no move to attack, letting fear weaken the other man’s resolve. He merely made sure that Lowell couldn’t bolt for the door. But was Golden One heading for the windows? Unlikely, as he didn’t know the gate was unlocked. Or was there another hatchway?

  The answer came crashing down an instant later. In a last grasp at escaping, Lowell grabbed a bookshelf and tipped it over to block the way between them. Spinning around he raced for the far corner of the room, where, sure enough, another trapdoor was inset into the floor.

  The laboratory. The roundabout dance had been all about circling back to the laboratory. From there, Lowell would have a carefully mapped out route for eluding pursuit.

  Ah, but the best-laid plans of mice and men . . . Having spent time in Scotland, Lowell ought to be familiar with the poet Robert Burns and his wry observation of chance and luck.

  The earl reached the hatchway just as Lowell half stepped, half slid down the first rungs of the ladder. He peered into the gloom, watching the man miss a handhold and nearly lose his balance. The ladder passed through an opening in the ceiling below, and beyond that he could see the flicker of the laboratory’s lamps.

  “Golden One,” he called, “your dream has turned to lead. I’ll chase you to the very pits of hell to keep you from getting away.”

  Lowell looked up, a wild light in his eyes. He tried to hurry his descent, but his foot slipped and he lost his grip.

  A plummeting scream was followed by a thud as he hit the metallic counter of his worktable. There was an instant of utter calm and then a horrific boom! ripped through the silence. Flames erupted, sending up a cloud of black smoke.

  “Qui gladio ferit, gladio perit,” murmured Wrexford as he stared down into the hellfire conflagration. The flask in Lowell’s coat must have contained a large sample of the mercury fulminate—which was stable unless hit with a sharp impact.

  “If you live by the sword, you must be prepared to die by the sword.”

  A blast of heat forced him back from the opening, and with a crackling bang, another explosion sounded within the bowels of the building. The fire was rapidly spreading through Lowell’s arsenal of chemicals. The laboratory would soon be a raging inferno.

  Perhaps the scientific laws of the universe were governed by an elegant symmetry after all. Unfathomable as of yet to mortal man.

  But that, mused Wrexford, was infinitely intriguing to one who was curious about how the world worked.

  As for how the human mind worked . . .

  Another searing flash, bringing with it an upswirl of a whirling dervish of gold sparks that singed his skin. A reminder that time was an elemental force in science.

  This particular experiment had run its course.

  Drawing his coat up over his nose, Wrexford fought his way through the billowing smoke. Heat scalded through his boots. The fire below was already crackling against the floorboards. The aged wood would soon burst into flames.

  Turning to get his bearings, he tripped over a roll of canvas. Close by, a tin of paint varnish ruptured, spattering him with burning-hot liquid. Choking down a cough, he scrambled to his feet, intent on reaching the open window. But a sudden wall of fire shot up to block his way, fueled by the oil paints and solvents.

  The smoke was getting thicker and heavy with noxious fumes. He spun around and plunged blindly through the swirling clouds in search of the door.

  CHAPTER 27

  Henning grabbed Charlotte’s arm to hold her back. “You promised you wouldn’t interfere, lassie.”

  “The building just exploded into flames!” she shot back. “So I daresay that means the earl is either dead or in need of assistance in escaping the fire. I think that good reason to amend the original agreement.”

  “The code of honor governing promises is rather rigid—it doesn’t bend to individual interpretation.”

  “To the Devil with gentlemanly strictures!” responded Charlotte. She shielded her eyes to the flare of blindingly bright light that exploded through one of the windows. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I tend to make my own rules. Wrexford may chastise me for it if he wishes, but it would be like the pot calling the kettle black.”

  Expelling a bemused grunt, he let his hand fall away. “I’ll come with you. I’m not very good at obeying orders either.”

  “No! I need you to stay here with the lads.” She darted a glance back at the stairwell, where Hawk had fallen asleep in his brother’s arms. The noise of the fire had not yet roused them, but she feared they would both fly into danger as soon as they awoke.

  “Please,” she added.

  Henning hesitated. “Auch, you’re putting me on the horns of a hellish decision—”

  Charlotte darted away, making the choice for him. The earl had risked his life for one of her dear little weasels. She wasn’t going to leave him to fend for himself when all hell was erupting within the warehouse. Her racing steps cut through the thin skirling of smoke in the passageway between the buildings. Hawk had described his escape route, but as she rounded the corner, she saw that a blaze of flames made the window impossible to enter.

  Unwilling to accept defeat, she retraced her steps and headed for the front door, hoping against hope to find it unlocked.

  Damnation! The latch, already hot to the touch, wouldn’t budge. In frustration, she slammed her shoulder against the paneled oak—and felt it give a little. Heat was buckling the molding. Charlotte hit it again and heard a crack. Stepping back, she threw herself forward at a dead run.

  The bolt popped free.

  “Wrexford!” she screamed, as she stumbled into the fiery maelstrom. All sense of sound and space was distorted. The whoosh and crackling seemed to swallow her words.

  Was that an answer? Or merely wishful thinking?

  Wincing from the heat slapping at her cheeks, Charlotte called again.

  This time the voice sounded more real.

  Drawing a sooty breath, she moved into the corridor and saw a flare of red-gold flames licking out from a room on the right. She rushed for the half-cracked door and kicked it all the way open. A blast of heat drove her back, but hunching low, she called
again.

  “Wrexford!”

  A dark shape materialized within the swirls of pewter smoke.

  Charlotte stumbled forward and grabbed the earl’s coat. Her eyes were stinging, her throat was burning. Holding on for dear life, she yanked as hard as she could.

  Both of them fell into the corridor. Scrabbling up, she hauled him to his knees. “Move!” she cried into his ear. “We have to move!”

  Somehow, she managed to get him upright and stumbling for the exit.

  “What in blazes are you doing here?” he croaked.

  “Gathering all the details for my next drawing, what else?” she replied, dodging a piece of falling plaster. “You know what a stickler I am for accuracy.”

  Wrexford turned his head, the firelight igniting a flash of blue in his eyes. “You’re incorrigible,” he muttered. But the stern line of his mouth gave way to a quicksilver smile.

  She smiled back at him. “By now that shouldn’t astonish you.”

  “You never . . .” He ducked away from more crumbling plaster. “You never cease to surprise me, Mrs. Sloane.”

  Charlotte wasn’t sure how to interpret the reply. Quite likely it meant nothing—the earl was facile with clever quips. Instead of responding, she reached up and touched his temple. Her fingers came away smeared with blood. “You’re hurt.”

  He winced. “It’s just a scratch. The lad—”

  “Is safe and sound, thanks to you.” She hurried him through the doorway and out into the street, where they both stood for several moments, drawing in deep gulps of air.

  “Where’s Lowell?” she asked, reaching out to bat away the glowing red sparks clinging to his coat sleeve.

  Wrexford coughed to clear his lungs. But before he could answer, a shout from the head of the street drew his attention.

  Sheffield started running toward them. Right at his heels was the Bow Street Runner, and behind him was another group of a half dozen men.

  “Bloody hell,” muttered the earl as his friend skidded to a halt.

  “Sorry, Wrex.” Sheffield gave a grimace of apology. “Allow me to explain.” He glanced back at Griffin and lifted his shoulders. “Alas, but with all the mental stimulation of late, my brainbox seems to have decided to be more active. You may choose to ring a peal over my head, but I took the liberty of giving Alice the Eel Girl a message for Bow Street before she darted off. I thought it made sense for Griffin to be here to take part in Lowell’s capture, and to witness for himself the man’s perfidy.”