Murder at Half Moon Gate

by Andrea Penrose

  “Yes, I suppose so,” replied Blodgett. “If there had been a mechanical problem with a component, it’s possible Mr. Ashton would have asked Mr. Hillhouse to speak with the men who ran the machinery. However, it’s hard to imagine I wouldn’t have known about it.”

  That made sense, reflected Wrexford. Striving to remain fair-minded, he tried to think of any other question that might cast Ashton’s assistant in a brighter light. But nothing came to mind.

  “Is there any other information I should know before I meet with Mr. Hillhouse?”

  Blodgett dropped his gaze to the carpet, and then slowly raised it again. “Just . . . Just that he seemed on edge and even more withdrawn that usual over the last few months.” The supervisor swallowed hard. “But then again, he and I aren’t on the best of terms. I’ve always felt he looked down on me because I never attended university.”

  “Anything else?” pressed Wrexford.

  The supervisor shook his head.

  “Thank you, Mr. Blodgett,” said Isobel after a long moment. “If you’ll wait for me in the side parlor, I’ll be along shortly so we can finish going over the production schedule and supply orders for the coming month.”

  How fortunate that she seemed to have a keen interest in business, thought the earl. Most ladies would need a strong whiff of vinaigrette if asked to make sense of a bill of lading.

  “I’ll ring for Mr. Hillhouse,” said Isobel after Blodgett had left the room. But before she reached for the bell, a discreet knock sounded on the door.

  “Forgive me, madam.” The butler entered and inclined an apologetic bow. “I’ve just received word from Mr. Hillhouse that there’s been a problem with the toolmakers and he’s been unavoidably detained at the shop.”

  “How unfortunate.” If the news annoyed her, she hid it well. “Please accept my apologies for the inconvenience, Lord Wrexford. It seems we will have to arrange another time for you to meet with him.”

  He waited for the butler to withdraw and then shrugged. “Business must, of course, come first. Is he working on a piece of machinery? Perhaps an element of the new invention?”

  “I couldn’t say.” A pause, which spoke louder than the three short words. “My husband gave Mr. Hillhouse free rein to experiment with the prototypes on which they were working. However, he hasn’t as yet seen fit to share the details of his tinkering with me.”

  That, imagined the earl, was going to change, and quickly. Assuming the fellow wasn’t given the sack by suppertime.

  “It is, however, unlikely that he will do so,” continued Isobel. “You see, my husband’s drawings appear to be missing. Whether Elihu had them on his person at the time of his murder, or whether he put them in a place of safekeeping is, as of yet, an unsolved mystery.”

  Along with too many other unanswered conundrums, thought Wrexford.

  He acknowledged her remark with a nod before shifting a step closer to the door. “I’ll take my leave. I’m sure you have much on your mind.” There was nothing more to gain by lingering, and she appeared anxious to return to her meeting with the mill supervisor.

  Isobel looked grateful and led the way out to the corridor.

  “This way, sir,” she murmured, indicating a turn to the right. “I’ll show you—” Her words cut off abruptly as a gentleman rounded the corner, looking very much at home in the place.

  “Ah—forgive me, Mrs. Ashton. Jenkins didn’t mention that you had company,” he drawled. “I should have sent word that was I coming. Given the tragic circumstances, it’s most unfeeling of me to intrude on your grief.”

  Light from the wall sconce caught the spark of surprise in her eyes as she fell back a pace. If Wrexford hadn’t moved to avoid her flaring skirts, he might have missed seeing it change to a flicker of fear before quickly dying out.

  “Good Heavens, you need not stand on ceremony, sir. This is your home. Had I known you were planning a visit to Town, I would have insisted on finding other lodgings,” replied Isobel tightly. Her lashes fluttered for an instant, and then went still.

  A veiled warning? But of what?

  Before Wrexford could consider the question, she turned abruptly to him and said, “Allow me to introduce Viscount Kirkland, eldest son of the Marquess of Blackstone, the friend of my husband who so kindly offered us his townhouse for our visit to London.”

  Blackstone. Why was the name ringing a bell?

  She shifted again in what might have been a flutter of nerves. “Lord Kirkland, this is Lord Wrexford.”

  “We met last night,” replied the earl.

  Kirkland regarded him blankly for a moment. “Ah, yes. So we did.” A disinterested smile. “Any luck in finding the fellow you were seeking?”

  “Yes,” replied Wrexford. The fellow’s pretentious arrogance would have been laughable, save for the effect his presence was having on the widow. Her face now had an arctic pallor, as if the blood in her veins had turned to ice.

  “Unfortunately he wasn’t able to help us,” he added slowly, curious to see the other man’s reaction.

  “A pity.” Kirkland’s gaze had already returned to Isobel. “I won’t hear of you moving, Mrs. Ashton, especially now in this time of great sadness.” The viscount lowered his voice to a mock whisper. “Truth be told, I prefer the comforts of my club to staying here. The chef there does a far tastier joint of beef than Cook, but don’t tell her I said so.”

  “What of your father?” she asked slowly. “Perhaps he—”

  “Oh, Pater left for Wales last week to visit with some family friends, and from there he is going to one of our Irish estates. Something to do with horseflesh, I believe. He’ll be gone for at least a month, so you need not concern yourself.” The viscount gave a negligent shrug. “Indeed, I’m not sure he knows yet of Mr. Ashton’s unfortunate demise. I’ve sent the news to Ireland, but God only knows when he’ll receive it.”

  “He may not wish for his house to be involved in such notoriety,” pressed Isobel.

  The protests seemed more than polite formalities, thought Wrexford. Yet another why to ponder.

  A low laugh sounded from Kirkland. “Good Heavens, Pater considers himself far above tawdry scandal or gossip. In his world, such things simply don’t exist.”

  If you are sure . . .” said Isobel.

  “Quite. So it’s settled.” insisted the viscount. “I simply stopped by to fetch a selection of Pater’s Indian cheroots.” He inclined a polite bow. “I’ll head on to his study and then take my leave.”

  Isobel stood frozen in place as the echo of Kirkland’s footsteps receded into the shadows.

  “Mrs. Ashton,” said the earl softly.

  She looked around with a start.

  “I, too, will see myself out.”

  “Forgive me,” she apologized. “I’m not thinking straight. I—I fear Mr. Blodgett’s news has unsettled me.”

  “Understandably so,” replied Wrexford. Seeing the uncertainty etched on her face, he couldn’t help adding, “Whatever the truth is about your husband’s murder, we will find it.”

  Isobel shifted, the heavy rustling of black bombazine stirring a sudden swirl of shadows. For an instant her face was veiled in darkness. “Do you really believe so?”

  Truth or lies?

  “As a man of science,” he answered, “I hold to the principle that every problem has a solution. One just has to find it.”

  A forced smile. “I shall take heart from your optimism.”

  “Inquiry takes patience. Answers are reached by taking one small step at a time.”

  “Yes, of course.” But her voice held no conviction.

  “Good day, madam.” Lost in thought, Wrexford exited the townhouse and began walking back to his own residence.

  Yet more threads added to the conundrum. Which was now tangling into a damnable Gordian knot.

  It wasn’t until he crossed the cobblestones and turned down Grosvenor Street that he remembered why the name Blackstone had sounded familiar. As the principal invest
or in Ashton’s company, the marquess was on the widow’s list of people who knew that a revolutionary new invention was in the works.

  As Wrexford mulled over the fact, another thought suddenly occurred to him. Surely father would confide in son. Which meant the list was missing a name.

  That of Viscount Kirkland . . .

  Wrexford slowed to a halt, realizing another one had also been omitted.

  That of Isobel Ashton.

  CHAPTER 13

  Charlotte awoke the next day feeling tired and out of sorts. She had slept fitfully, her peace plagued by dreams of unseen threats, pressing closer and closer, choking off all air and light.

  The morning had passed in a blur—a simple breakfast and the boys made presentable for their first lessons with the new tutor. True to his word, the earl had sent the young man around for an interview the previous evening, and she had found him to be a solid, sensible choice. More than that, he had a sense of humor, which she hoped boded well for his taming the Weasels. As he lived nearby, it had been agreed that Raven and Hawk would go to his rooms this morning to begin the experiment.

  She prayed that it would work out. The boys were bright and the chance to expand their horizons would open up new worlds to them. But for the moment it was out of her hands.

  A good thing, as she had been unaccountably clumsy in preparing the meal, scorching her fingers on the kettle and dropping a plate of fresh-sliced bread.

  After making a few desultory sketches at her desk, all of which were consigned to the wastebin, it was time to dress for her rendezvous with Jeremy and his friends.

  Staring into the looking glass, Charlotte sighed on seeing the dark shadows under her eyes. Hardly an auspicious sign for her first official foray into Polite Society.

  Imposter. Perhaps she should simply letter a sign to pin on her bodice announcing the fact.

  “I don’t have to do this,” she muttered. And yet, even as she said it, she knew she did.

  The why of it seemed to elude words. When she had first assumed her late husband’s persona of A. J. Quill, it had simply been a matter of survival. But penning the barbs and satire on frivolous scandals had sharpened her awareness of deeper injustices, and Charlotte had found that truth and fairness mattered far more to her than merely a means for putting bread on the table.

  That she could help puncture lies and expose evil with her art had somehow taken hold in her heart.

  Semper anticus. Always forward. There was no going back.

  Charlotte rose and opened the doors of her armoire. At least she had decent armor in which to march into the fray, she thought wryly. The necessity of having to accompany Jeremy to review the final choices for her new residence had required a respectable gown that wasn’t hopelessly outdated. Luckily her network of informants included an Italian modiste who catered to the beau monde. The woman—who was savvy enough about business to pretend she was French—had readily agreed to create a suitable design.

  She fingered the whisper-soft merino wool, feeling a little guilty at the pleasure she took in such fripperies. The subtle grey-blue color—the exact shade of twilight in September—was dark enough to convey somber sensibility. And yet there was a hint of mystery. Of elemental feminine allure. As for the cut, by some sort of needle-and-thread magic it seemed to transform her tall and slender shape into something . . . less ordinary.

  Her bare bones life had so few enchantments. Perhaps it wasn’t wrong to secretly—secretly!—savor the thought of drawing a man’s eye. Jeremy had naturally offered flowery compliments. But she had also caught the admiring glances from other men.

  Repressing a shiver—and the sudden, unbidden thought of how Wrexford would react to seeing her dressed as a real lady—Charlotte smoothed a finger over the delicate tucking around the bodice and then shucked off her wrapper.

  Contrary to folk wisdom, it was possible to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, she thought wryly as she slipped the gown over her head and did up the fastenings.

  A twirl in front of the full-length cheval glass confirmed that Madame Franchot—nee Franzenelli—truly possessed bewitching powers.

  Trying not to feel like a charlatan, she took a seat at her dressing table, and reached for her brush and pins.

  “Let us hope the spell works on Wrexford’s servant,” she whispered, once she had finished arranging her hair. Taking up the pert little chip-straw bonnet that the modiste had made to accompany the dress, Charlotte carefully looped the ribbons into a neat bow.

  The silk suddenly felt a little clammy, as if the breath from a ghost had sent a sigh tickling over her fingers. Charlotte steeled her spine.

  No, the past was the past. It would not come back to haunt her.

  Grabbing up her gloves and shawl, she hurried downstairs to wait for Wrexford’s carriage. Despite her resolve to remain calm, the quickening thump of her heart echoed each passing minute.

  Finally, the clatter of iron-rimmed wheels on the cobblestones roused her from brooding.

  She rose, a spurt of panic shooting through her veins as the horses halted.

  Steady, steady.

  As Wrexford had promised, it was a nondescript vehicle, with no fancy footman or tiger clinging to the outside perch.

  Nihil sibi metuunt. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. Drawing a deep breath, Charlotte took hold of the door latch and stepped outside.

  * * *

  “You’re a hard man to find, Griffin.” Having had no luck in tracking down the Runner the previous evening, Wrexford finally caught up with him at an out-of-the-way tavern in St. Giles. “It wasn’t so long ago when I couldn’t take a step without tripping over your boots.”

  “That was when I wanted your head on a platter. Now, thanks to you and your penchant for finding dead bodies, I have another murder to solve.” Griffin polished off the last morsel of his cheese and pickle, then pushed away the empty plate. “Have you got something for me—other than a wedge of apple pie and another tankard of ale?”

  “One would think you’d starve if you didn’t know me.” After calling the order to a barmaid, the earl took a seat at the small table. ‘The answer is yes—I have something meaty for you.”

  Griffin waited until his pie and ale arrived before murmuring, “I’m listening.”

  “I think Hollis and the radicals may not be solely responsible for Ashton’s murder,” began Wrexford. The Runner was not yet aware of Hollis’s dying words or jumbled numbers found in the desk, a fact he quickly rectified. He did, however, hold back the mention of Nevins. He had not yet managed to track down Henning, and until he spoke with the surgeon, he wasn’t going to send the authorities sniffing around his clinic.

  Griffin fixed him with a baleful look. “You didn’t think I should have known that right away?”

  Wrexford shrugged. While he and the Runner had an unspoken truce, it was a wary one. “As I said, you’re a hard man to find.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “There are too many possible—and powerful—motives that haven’t been fully explored,” pressed the earl. “Think about it, Griffin. Why would the radicals leave their symbol on the body? Given the government’s fears of labor unrest, they would know it would be inviting the military to hunt them down like vermin.”

  “You’re assuming they think rationally,” pointed out the Runner.

  “It feels too simple,” insisted Wrexford. “I think we need to keep looking at whether one of Ashton’s investors was involved in the murder. Or perhaps a member of his household.” A pause. “Ashton’s assistant continues to avoid meeting with me to discuss the case.”

  Forking up a bite of pie, Griffin chewed thoughtfully before replying. Ignoring the earl’s suggestion, he focused on the facts. “Any luck in deciphering the numbers? That’s assuming the paper isn’t a child’s mindless scribbles from years ago. As you pointed out, there’s no proof it was left by Hollis.”

  “No, I’ve not yet made any sense of it. But as I said, intuition tells me that alo
ng with tracking down radicals you should look more closely at the people around Ashton. The motive of the patent is too powerful to ignore. After all, money is usually at the root of all evil.”

  “Have you any—any—proof of that?”

  Damnation. The fellow was like a bulldog, who needed a bone between his teeth before he could chew. “For God’s sake, use your imagination.”

  “My superiors don’t pay me to commune with the realm of fantasy, milord.” Griffin set his fork down. “The government is extremely concerned about the prospect of workers rioting and mayhem breaking out across the country. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell they will allow me to break off my hunt for the radical leaders on a mere hunch. Even from you.”

  Wrexford swore under his breath.

  “Find me some actual evidence of your theory,” went on the Runner. “Otherwise you’re on your own.” He took a long draught of ale. “But do have a care. I should miss the pleasure of your company, milord.”

  Wrexford rose with a grunt. “And that of my purse.”

  * * *

  “Good day, madam.” The coachman hopped down from his perch and opened the carriage door.

  Charlotte climbed inside, thankful that the small glass-paned windows let in little light. Shadows would help hide her masquerade.

  After settling herself in a swoosh of skirts, she dared to look up at the facing seat.

  “His Lordship sends his regards, Mrs. Sloane, and trusts that my company will prove satisfactory.”

  The throaty voice, edged with a sharp Scottish burr, took her by surprise. She had expected a young tweenie and kitchen maid, not . . .

  “I’ve been told you prefer plain speaking,” said the woman who sat facing her. “So allow me to assure you that I’m not easily rattled, nor do I have a tongue that’s prone to wagging.” A pause. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  “Plain speaking, indeed,” murmured Charlotte. She took a moment to assess her companion. A thin, angular face, beaky nose, and bony body—the woman, well past the first bloom of youth, would never be called a beauty, but the glint of lively intelligence in her eyes cut through the gloom.