Murder at Half Moon Gate

by Andrea Penrose

  “That’s quite understandable, Miss Merton. I shall try to keep my questions short.” Wrexford gave her a moment to compose herself, but then pressed on. Perhaps it was cruel, assuming her grief was real. However, if fear and guilt were leaving her vulnerable to making a verbal mistake, he couldn’t afford to let the opportunity slip away.

  “I’ve been told that Ashton was on the verge of completing work on an important invention—one that would change the way many things are manufactured in this country,” he said. “Is that true?”

  “Yes,” said Octavia. “Eli was a genius, and his latest idea promised to be revolutionary.” She looked up from her lap and for the first time allowed her eyes to meet his. “You worked with him on a formula for iron, Lord Wrexford. So you know that his intellect was unique. But . . .”

  A tiny furrow formed between her brows. “ But I don’t see what all this has to do with his death.”

  It appeared that Mrs. Ashton hadn’t told Miss Merton about the note that had lured her husband to the stews of St. Giles. Was it because she suspected that her husband’s secretary already knew of its existence?

  Shaking off such thoughts for the moment, Wrexford replied, “I have reason to believe that someone was hell-bent on snuffing out Ashton’s brilliance.”

  Octavia blinked, the only sign of emotion. “I don’t understand. I thought it was a random robbery by footpads.”

  “On the contrary, all signs point to it having been a premeditated attack. Judging by the state of his clothing, the killer was searching for something. I think it might have been papers.” He let the words sink in. “Can you think of anyone who might have committed such a terrible crime?”

  Her knuckles whitened as she fisted her hands together. Silence stretched long enough that he thought she might not answer. But when she finally spoke, her voice didn’t waver. “No.”

  “If his invention was as revolutionary as you say, the patent on it would be worth a fortune,” pointed out Wrexford.

  “Eli wasn’t interested in becoming rich,” said Octavia in the same measured tone.

  The earl couldn’t help chuffing a skeptical grunt.

  “He wasn’t,” she insisted. “Any money made on a patent was going to be used—” Her words cut off abruptly.

  “For what?” he prompted.

  Octavia stiffened her spine against the pillows, her expression remaining stony. “It doesn’t matter now. He’s dead.”

  Wrexford thought it mattered a great deal, and made a note to learn more about Ashton’s business. Looking at her rigid features, he decided there was little chance in prying more information out of her concerning the inventor’s intentions. So he returned to his original line of questioning.

  “Ashton may not have been interested in acquiring a personal fortune, but most people are. Greed is a powerful motive. I have a list here of people who knew about Ashton’s research.” Paper crackled as he raised the list from his lap. “Do you think any of them capable of violence?”

  One by one, he slowly read off six names, each time getting a brusque shake of her head in response.

  He looked up from the page. “And lastly, Benedict Hillhouse.”

  “Benedict!” The shrillness of her voice seemed to amplify as it echoed off the ornate furnishings of the room. She looked torn between fear and fury. “No—never!”

  Interesting. The sudden burst of emotion hinted at hidden fire. Miss Octavia Merton was taking great pains to keep a tight control over herself, and yet clearly there were passions bubbling just beneath the surface.

  “You seem very sure of that.”

  “I am.”

  The answer made him curious to meet Ashton’s laboratory assistant. “I should like to speak with Mr. Hillhouse myself. Might you ask him if he will grant me a few minutes of his time?”

  “He’s out,” replied Octavia softly.

  “When will he return?” countered the earl.

  “I couldn’t say.”

  Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?

  “Then I shall call tomorrow afternoon. Please ask him to be here at half past three.”

  She stared at him, unblinking.

  Wrexford decided there was no point in continuing the interview. “Thank you for your time, Miss Merton. For the moment I have no further questions.”

  Tucking the list into his pocket, he rose and took several steps toward the door, then paused. “If I asked you to describe Mrs. Ashton in one word, what would it be?”

  Octavia stared down at the carpet. “I’m not very good with words.”

  An evasive answer. Which perhaps told him more than she intended.

  Lost in thought, Wrexford left the townhouse and began walking the short distance back to Berkeley Square. Amid the many questions swirling inside his head, one in particular was echoing loudly against his skull.

  Why the devil had he allowed himself to be drawn into investigating the murder of a man he barely knew?

  He wasn’t normally plagued by self-doubts over decisions, but this one was bothering him in a way he couldn’t quite articulate. Had he been a fool to succumb to Isobel’s plea? The case offered naught but devilishly difficult conundrums to unravel. Even Griffin, a man who made his living apprehending criminals, was doubtful about the chances of apprehending the killer.

  Was it hubris that had him believe he alone could succeed?

  Or some more incomprehensible force?

  By the time he reached his townhouse, Wrexford was in a foul mood from spinning in mental circles.

  “Milord,” murmured his butler as he stormed through the front entrance and tossed his hat and gloves on the sidetable.

  “Not now, Riche,” he snapped. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

  Undeterred, Riche followed. “Actually, sir, perhaps you had better have a look at the package. The messenger insisted it was of utmost importance.”

  Something in his tone brought Wrexford to an abrupt halt. “Did it come from Mrs. Ashton’s residence?”

  “No, milord, it was delivered by a . . . Young Person.”

  “Describe him.”

  Riche’s face went through a series of odd little contortions. “Actually, considering how he was dressed, I would rather not.” He cleared his throat with a cough and held out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. “He did say his name was Master Thomas Ravenwood Sloane and that on no account was I to hand over these”—another cough—“billy-doos to anyone but His Nibs.”

  Wrexford felt his mouth twitch. “Thank you, Riche.” He undid the twine and took a long moment to read over Charlotte’s note and the accompanying pamphlet.

  Bloody hell. He now felt even more foolish. While he was floundering around, grasping for clues, it appeared that Charlotte had, with her usual incisive intuition, cut to the heart of the mystery.

  With a motive, most crimes became far easier to unravel.

  There were still hours to go before Sheffield returned. Looking up, he quickly retrieved his hat and gloves.

  “Have Bailin bring round my carriage.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Charlotte leaned back and assessed her finished drawing. Color had yet to be added, but the black pen strokes—the elemental heart of a print—were strong and sure. Artistically, she was satisfied.

  But had she taken the coward’s way out?

  Yes, the Duke of Cumberland’s mistress looked to be involved in another sordid bribery scandal, which threatened to sling yet more mud on the Royal family’s reputation. And yes, the public deserved to know. They depended on A. J. Quill to keep the aristocracy’s arrogant assumption of privilege in check.

  Or so Charlotte rationalized.

  But even as she assured herself that she had made the right choice of subjects, a tiny voice in the back of her head disagreed.

  Her Man versus Machine prints didn’t provoke the same gleeful laughter as her satirical skewering of the Royals. Most people wished to chortle at the misery of others. They didn’t wish to confront serious questions
—especially when there were no easy answers.

  Panem et circenses. Bread and circuses. Juvenal, the Roman satirical poet, had possessed a keen understanding of human nature.

  Taking up her paintbrush, Charlotte began to add in the vivid highlights that would bring the black and white drawing to life.

  “Tomorrow,” she promised to quiet her conscience. “Tomorrow I shall refocus my attention on the plight of the workers displaced by the new steam-powered machinery.”

  As for Elihu Ashton’s murder . . .

  Her hand stilled, the pigment-filled brush hovering in midair. Gruesome as the act had been, she feared the motives behind the crime were going to prove even uglier. Hatred, greed, jealousy, betrayal . . .

  A knock on the front door drew her from such dark speculations.

  Charlotte reluctantly set aside her work and rose. The visitor was not likely to brighten her mood. She had a feeling she knew who it was.

  “You seem to have a sixth sense for crime, Mrs. Sloane,” said Wrexford, as he stepped into the entrance foyer and shook a spattering of raindrops from his hat. Pulling the pamphlet from his pocket, he added, “By what unholy magic did you manage to discover this?”

  “I’m not a witch or alchemist, as you well know. I simply use my ears and my eyes,” she answered.

  “And yet you see and hear things that escape mere mortals.”

  “That’s how I make my living.” Charlotte gestured for him to enter the main room. “Forgive me, but things are even more cramped than usual,” she muttered after pulling a face.

  He shifted a wooden paintbox off one of the stools and took a seat. “When do you move to your new residence?”

  “The day after the morrow.”

  His lidded gaze seemed to be searching her face for something. Charlotte turned away.

  “You don’t sound happy,” observed the earl.

  “I . . .” How to explain the churning of conflicting emotions? “It’s not that simple, milord.”

  “Few things in life are.” He, too, seemed unsettled.

  Charlotte cleared off one of the other stools. “Including Elihu Ashton’s murder?”

  “Indeed.” Wrexford drummed his fingertips on the scarred wood tabletop. For a moment, he looked disinclined to leave off his probing into her personal life.

  But as she had hoped, his innate sense of pragmatism prevailed.

  “Like, you, I’ve discovered a few more facts since yesterday,” he said. “But first, tell me more about the pamphlet, and where you got it. It’s given us an exceedingly important clue.”

  “In studying the sketch you left, I realized that the cuts formed a symbol—one that looked familiar.” Charlotte quickly explained about having seen the pamphlet at Henning’s clinic, and her visit that morning to question the surgeon about it.

  “Radical reformers bent on stopping progress at any cost?” he murmured after she had finished recounting what she had learned about the Workers of Zion. “Well done, Mrs. Sloane. Your discerning eye and instincts have once again proved invaluable.”

  Charlotte didn’t feel quite so heroic.

  “Henning wasn’t happy about crying rope on the group, and I understand his conflicted feelings. My sympathies lie with the workers as well.” She and her late husband had struggled through some very lean times, so she understood the gnawing terror of trying to stay one step ahead of starvation.

  “And yet . . .” he added.

  Their eyes locked for an instant, and then she quickly looked away. She was still feeling strangely vulnerable and wasn’t sure she wanted the earl to see it. He had very sharp eyes to go along with his razor-edged tongue.

  “And yet, a radical group here in London is a very dangerous development,” went on Wrexford. He expelled a sigh. “I suppose it’s no surprise, even though there are fewer factory workers here than in other parts of the country. But it’s bad news for the government. The fear of job losses is like a powder keg—it will take naught but a spark to set off an explosion of labor unrest.”

  “Henning says the Workers of Zion are even more radical than the followers of Ned Ludd,” said Charlotte, her throat tightening around the words. “They advocate the killing of factory owners if steam-powered machines can’t be stopped by any other means.”

  “Madness,” muttered the earl, echoing her own thoughts on the matter. “The fear is whipped up by leaders who rarely are the ones paying in blood for such demagoguery.” The chiseled angles of his face looked even harsher in the subdued light. “You know as well as I who will be the ones to suffer.”

  Charlotte hugged her arms to her chest. He was right. Social reforms were much needed to protect the working class. But groups like the Workers of Zion would only bring misery upon countless people by urging them to foment chaos and murder. The government would fight violence with violence. And there was no question of who would win.

  She shivered.

  Wrexford frowned in thought. “But as I mentioned, I, too, have uncovered a telling clue. Thanks to Sheffield, I may be on the trail of the actual murderer, and from what you’ve just told me, I’ve reason to believe he’ll turn out to be one of leaders of the Workers of Zion.”

  He told her about his friend having recognized the handwriting of the note that lured Ashton to his death and the plan to track down Gannett.

  It was, Charlotte thought, an extraordinary stroke of luck. But in her experience, Fortune was rarely so generous . . .

  “You really think he will prove to be the culprit?”

  Wrexford quirked a sardonic smile. “Tsk-tsk. You’re not supposed to be quite as cynical as I am.”

  “I prefer to call it realistic,” she responded.

  A gruff laugh. “To answer your question, it’s possible. Sheffield is quite sure about the handwriting, so perhaps we will get lucky,” he replied. “Luck does happen.”

  “Or perhaps he’s merely an accomplice,” mused Charlotte. “Most plots involve more than one serpent slithering through the shadows.” Her thoughts leapt back to her conversation with the surgeon. “Henning gave me a good description of the man who left the pamphlets at his surgery. I could work with my contacts in the area to track him down.”

  “If he’s the murderer . . .” Wrexford’s expression turned grim.

  “I know how to be careful, milord.”

  “Ashton was not a pretty sight,” he said softly.

  “Nor was Holworthy,” countered Charlotte.

  The reminder of the reverend’s murder did nothing to soften the earl’s scowl.

  “So unless you have another idea on how to pursue—”

  “Actually I have,” he interrupted. “Two, in fact.” The pamphlet fluttered in front of her nose. “With this in hand, Griffin will have a damnable difficult time denying that Bow Street should investigate Ashton’s murder more thoroughly.”

  Charlotte mentally conceded the point.

  “And secondly,” continued Wrexford, “I’ve already begun looking more closely at the list of names provided by Mrs. Ashton.” He gave a terse account of his meeting with the widow and Octavia Merton, along with his intention of meeting with Benedict Hillhouse on the morrow.

  “It seems highly unlikely that Ashton’s trusted assistants have any connection to the Workers of Zion,” she said. “Doesn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “We both have learned that clues aren’t always what they seem at first. Murder has a way of twisting into a serpentine tangle of motives. And I suspect that Miss Merton may know more than she claims.”

  Much as Charlotte wished to argue, his words held too much truth. Blood spilled by violent death often tainted both the guilty and the innocent.

  “Very well. I shall hold off on pursuing the man Henning described.” She couldn’t, however, resist adding, “For now.”

  That didn’t seem to surprise the earl. In fact, the brusque rumbling in his throat sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

  “Then let us cry pax.” He paused. “For now.”

>   Peace, however fragile between them, was a welcome offer. Her emotions were in enough conflict. Allowing a small smile, Charlotte rose. “Would you care for some tea?”

  Wrexford looked about to refuse the offer, then seemed to have a change of heart. “Yes, thank you.” Lowering his voice to a mutter, he added, “Perhaps a hot-as-Hades brew will help wash the bitter taste of this damnable investigation from my mouth.”

  * * *

  As Charlotte bustled with filling the kettle, Wrexford made a closer scrutiny of the room and half-packed boxes. The move to a new neighborhood would be simple enough. Her earthly possessions would barely fill a single dray cart.

  As for what was weighing on her mind . . .

  “Have you settled on schooling for the Weasels?” he asked.

  She took her time to measure an exact amount of dried leaves from the tin tea canister. Which in itself was answer enough.

  The water came to a boil, sending up a scrim of steam to hide her expression.

  “I—I have not yet decided on what to do,” Charlotte finally said over the clatter of the cups. “For now, I plan on continuing their lessons with Mr. Keating. It’s a long trek, and only for one afternoon a week, but . . .” Her voice trailed off as she carried the tray to the table.

  Wrexford noted the shadows flickering beneath her lashes. “But what?”

  She let the tea steep for another few moments before pouring. “But I worry about them fitting into a classroom.” A sigh slipped from her lips. “It is a more prosperous neighborhood, and I fear their background may make it hard for them to feel at home.”

  He didn’t intrude on her hesitation.

  “Raven doesn’t trust others easily. And Hawk will copy his brother,” she added. “It is . . . daunting, milord.” Charlotte sat heavily. “I’m not sure I possess the proper experience to play the mother hen for two wild fledglings.”

  “Your instincts seem quite exemplary in all else,” pointed out Wrexford. “I can’t think of any reason why they wouldn’t be so in this.”

  “That’s kind of you, sir.”

  “Actually, it has nothing to do with kindness. I’m basing it on empirical observation, rather than emotion.” He took several sips of the steaming brew, then set down his cup. “You know, I may have a solution to your dilemma.”