Murder at Half Moon Gate

by Andrea Penrose

  The tightness in Charlotte’s chest slowly released in a silent exhale.

  A faint smile played on the other woman’s lips. “Aye, I ain’t much to look at, but His Lordship says you need someone trustworthy, and he knows I can be counted on to keep my mummer shut.”

  “I’m rather afraid to ask what he’s told you about me,” replied Charlotte dryly. “I’m not intending to commit murder or steal the Duchess of Devonshire’s jewels.”

  The smile stretched a little wider. “What a pity. Life has been a little flat lately. An adventure would be welcome.” The woman shifted against the squabs. “I’m McClellan.”

  Charlotte reminded herself that a lady’s maid was always called by her last name. “I’m grateful for your assistance, McClellan.” On impulse, she held out her hand. “I’ll try not to cause you too much trouble.”

  McClellan responded with a firm shake. “A wee bit of trouble keeps life interesting, Mrs. Sloane.”

  They rode on for a few minutes in silence as Charlotte sought to sort out her thoughts. Wrexford had a knack of keeping her off-balance . . .

  The why of which was a conundrum in and of itself.

  A frown pinched her brow. It was maddening to have to keep swallowing her pride. But honesty compelled her to admit that in this case, his unpredictability was most welcome.

  McClellan, noted Charlotte, seemed unperturbed by the silence. Another mark in the woman’s favor. A chattering fibber-widget would have driven her to distraction.

  Her reflections were cut short as the carriage turned down Piccadilly Street. The driver drew to a halt at the entrance to Green Park, and Charlotte soon found herself strolling along the graveled walkway, the very picture of a prim and proper lady, with her maid trailing behind at a discreet distance.

  Oh, how looks can be deceiving.

  The irony was rather amusing. It was, after all, at the heart of how she made her living.

  “Mrs. Sloane.” Jeremy was waiting at the appointed spot. “You are looking quite lovely,” he said gallantly.

  “Save your Spanish coin, Jem. Its glitter doesn’t fool me,” she murmured.

  He chuckled. “You wound me to suggest my compliments are false gold.”

  “You’ll survive.”

  Seeing his quizzical glance at McClellan, who was standing at the requisite distance required of a servant, Charlotte explained, “I do know the rules of Polite Society. However idiotic they are, I must comply if I wish to mingle with the beau monde. McClellan has agreed to play the role of lady’s maid for the afternoon.”

  “How—” began Jeremy.

  “I asked a favor,” she answered curtly.

  He looked about to press the point, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he merely tipped his hat politely at McClellan before offering Charlotte his arm. “Come, let us observe the maids milking the cows.” The park was well-known for the rustic sight of dairy cattle grazing on the lawns. “Miss Merton and Mr. Hillhouse will meet us there by the serving shed.”

  Charlotte was curious to meet the pair. She wondered whether Wrexford’s interview with Ashton’s assistant had fared any better than the one with his secretary. Given her own experience with his interrogation techniques, she rather doubted it.

  “You say you’ve known Mr. Hillhouse for some time?” she asked, turning her attention to Jeremy.

  “Yes. We were both scholarship students at Oxford. It was a bond of sorts—unlike the fancy swells, we had little blunt for carousing,” he answered. “But it turned out we both enjoyed each other’s company.” A wry grimace tugged at his lips. “His interest in mathematics and science was beyond me, however we shared similar tastes in reading, and spent many an hour discussing art and philosophy.”

  Radical philosophy? wondered Charlotte. It wouldn’t be surprising, given they were intelligent young men without a groat in their pockets. She left the question unsaid. She knew the depths of Jeremy’s loyalty. He would curl up tight as a wary hedgehog if he thought she was digging for dirt on his friend.

  “Mr. Hillhouse sounds like a very interesting fellow.”

  The question is whether he is also a very dangerous one.

  “That he is,” replied Jeremy as he cut around a pair of laughing boys playing catch with a cricket ball.

  A breeze ruffled through the air, stirring the sun-warmed scent of grass. Charlotte inhaled deeply, savoring its sweetness. She must think about bringing the boys here, and treating them to a glass of fresh milk. Hawk, who had a love for animals, would be in alt—

  “Lord Sterling!” The sudden hail from behind them sounded a bit breathless.

  Charlotte glanced around to see a young woman hurrying in their direction. She looked to be alone.

  “Miss Merton,” began Jeremy. But his welcoming smile quickly faded on seeing her expression. “Is something amiss?”

  “No . . . Yes!” Octavia Merton came to an awkward halt.

  Whether her face was red from rushing or from embarrassment at making such a dramatic entrance was impossible for Charlotte to tell.

  “W-What I mean is,” added Octavia in a rush, “I fear something has gone dreadfully wrong.”

  Jeremy stiffened. “Take a moment to catch your breath, and then tell me why.”

  Octavia gulped in a lungful of air and let it out in a low whoosh. “Benedict has gone missing.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Gone missing?” repeated Jeremy, his voice pinching to a sharp edge.

  Aware that they were beginning to draw curious stares, Charlotte gave him a small nudge. “Let us walk,” she whispered.

  “Right.” Mastering his emotions, he forced a smile and quickly offered Octavia his other arm. “Come, this way.”

  To her credit, Ashton’s secretary obeyed without argument.

  Setting a deliberately leisurely pace, Jeremy guided them down a path that led to a copse of trees. A breeze ruffled through the leaves overhead, casting a flutter of shadows over their faces. His steps turned even slower as the path curved deeper into the greenery, and after a careful glance around, he finally spoke.

  “Now, please explain yourself, Miss Merton.”

  “Benedict never returned from the toolmaker’s shop yesterday,” replied Octavia. Her earlier agitation was gone, replaced by a taut control. “He was supposed to meet with Lord Wrexford, so at first I assumed he didn’t want—” She cut off abruptly and shot a wary glance at Charlotte.

  Jeremy drew in a measured breath. “Mrs. Sloane is an old and trusted friend. You may speak freely.”

  But the tiny hint of hesitation made Charlotte wonder whether he truly believed that. He had always supported her decision to take up A. J. Quill’s pen, but she knew a part of him didn’t understand it.

  Gravel crunched beneath their feet as they kept walking.

  “At first I assumed he didn’t wish to meet with the earl,” explained Octavia. “But now I fear something has happened to him.”

  Jeremy frowned in thought. “Perhaps he simply stopped by a tavern and . . . well, it would be understandable if he sought some solace from the shock of Ashton’s death.”

  Octavia made a rude sound. “Benedict would never have left me in the lurch. Not with all the suspicions of—”

  She shot another glance at Charlotte, but Jeremy seemed too preoccupied to notice.

  “God in heavens, what do you mean?” he demanded.

  “I know the newspapers have called Eli’s death the tragic result of a random attack by footpads.” Octavia lowered her voice to a whisper. “But in truth, there’s compelling evidence that it wasn’t random. And I imagine you can guess why.”

  “Say no more,” said Jeremy, darting a look around. “I think we should return to your townhouse, where we can discuss this in complete privacy.”

  The shadows couldn’t hide the flare of anger that lit Octavia’s eyes. “Privacy—ha! There always seems to be one of Mrs. Ashton’s servants lurking in the corridors, spying on us. And Benedict is quite certain our st
udy has been searched.”

  “For what?” asked Jeremy with a tightness Charlotte had never heard before in his voice.

  Octavia didn’t answer.

  Ye god. Charlotte wondered what Wrexford would make of the accusation. Assuming, of course, that Octavia wasn’t lying. The woman was, after all, a suspect . . .

  And then, all at once, Wrexford’s ugly suggestion, reared up in her head. So, he had said, was Jeremy.

  No. She thrust the idea away. It was unthinkable. She knew her friend too well.

  “You think Mrs. Ashton is looking—” began Jeremy, but Charlotte quickly interrupted him.

  “Lord Sterling was right to suggest a return to your townhouse, Miss Merton. It’s dangerous to discuss such private matters in public.” Like Jeremy, she glanced around. McClellan, who had dutifully trailed along behind them, seemed to have sensed the tension in the air. She, too, was surveying the surroundings.

  “Words have a way of being overheard,” finished Charlotte. Though they seemed safe enough, she knew that dangers were often unseen.

  “We’ll find a hackney on Piccadilly Street,” said Jeremy. And yet he seemed loath to make a move.

  “No need. My carriage is waiting there,” replied Charlotte. Ignoring his look of surprise, she tugged at his arm. “Come, let us not linger.”

  The ride back to the Grosvenor Square passed in uneasy silence. Perhaps regretful of her earlier outburst, Octavia had withdrawn into herself. Her face gave no hint of her inner emotions. And while eyes were said to be the windows to the soul, hers were veiled by the thick fringe of her lashes.

  Charlotte considered herself a good judge of people, but Ashton’s secretary was proving devilishly difficult to decipher. Octavia seemed a strange mix of fire and ice. Her earlier agitation had seemed genuine. But as Wrexford had pointed out, the two recent murders appeared to have been planned with meticulous cunning. Whoever possessed such cold-blooded ruthlessness was likely very good at deception.

  Lies and distraction. Smoke and sleight of hand.

  As they entered the townhouse, the butler appeared in the main hallway and cleared his throat. “Miss Merton, Mrs. Ashton left word that you were to join her in the drawing room as soon as you returned.”

  “I shall do so,” replied Octavia. “As soon as I escort my guests to my study and order them some tea.”

  The man looked unhappy at the answer, but grudgingly stepped aside to let them pass.

  “Might my maid wait for me in the kitchen?” asked Charlotte, knowing it was a perfectly proper request to make. Servants tended to gossip about the goings-on in a house, and McClellan struck her as someone who would keep her eyes and ears open.

  “But of course, madam.” He gestured to her maid. “Follow me.”

  Octavia checked up and down the corridor before shutting the study door and turning to face them. “Please don’t think me a flighty peagoose. I assure you, I’ve never been accused of having an overactive imagination.” She made a face. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  “Benedict has nothing but the highest praise for your intellect and steady good sense,” responded Jeremy.

  Nonetheless, Charlotte could see something was troubling him. She, too, was finding the sudden turn of events difficult to swallow. Murder, cryptic clues, and now the disappearance of a possible suspect—it was sounding more and more like one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels.

  Octavia didn’t miss the shade of doubt in his voice. “Lord Sterling, I don’t blame you for wondering whether I’m spinning a Banbury tale. But I can explain.” She let out a harried sigh. “I know Benedict considers you a man who can be trusted with any secret . . .”

  Jeremy paled.

  “So I feel I can—nay, I must—trust you. There’s evil at play here, and I suspect . . .” She hesitated. “Might I ask you to accompany me to the back parlor, where we may talk in private, sir?”

  Charlotte watched as Octavia’s gaze shifted to her. “Forgive my rudeness, Mrs.—” A grimace. “I’m sorry. I don’t even recall your name.”

  “Sloane,” she said softly. “And it’s entirely understandable that you don’t wish to confide such life-and-death matters to a total stranger.” She allowed a thin smile. “I wouldn’t either.”

  “Thank you.” Octavia turned to Jeremy. “Sir?”

  Grim-faced, he nodded, but as he moved by her, Charlotte saw it was not just worry that pinched his features.

  It was fear.

  The door shut with a doleful thump, leaving the room quiet as a crypt.

  You were right not to trust me, Miss Merton, thought Charlotte as she quickly moved to the desk and skimmed over the papers lying atop the blotter. Seeing nothing of interest, she made a check of the drawers. It was too risky to start poking through the contents now, but if anything looked promising, she could make a clandestine visit during the night.

  However, as she suspected from Octavia’s comment about the room having been searched, nothing caught her eye. It had, however, been worth a try.

  No matter how clever we think we are, we all make mistakes.

  Once again, Wrexford’s unsettling words about secrets within secrets stirred like a serpent, sending a shiver slithering down her spine.

  Charlotte shook off the sensation. Looking up, she spotted a large majolica figurine on the far side table, half-hidden between two stacks of books. A specialty of the Tuscan region of Italy, the colorful piece of rustic pottery stirred a sudden sharp pang of nostalgia. It was silly—the gaily-painted rooster had an almost comic naiveté to it. And yet, her breath seemed to stick in her lungs.

  How absurd. She should be feeling the urge to laugh, not cry.

  Against her better judgment, Charlotte crossed the carpet and with great care picked it up. The weighty heft, the smooth glaze, the pure hues—everything was achingly familiar, right down to the last detail of the beaky smile.

  Her late husband had bought a similar figurine on a trip they had made to Florence during the first year of their time in Rome. It had been far too expensive for their paltry purse, but he had insisted on getting it in celebration of her birthday A talisman to the good times and good fortune ahead, he had said. It had sat on their kitchen table, a spot of brightness as the shadows of poverty had slowly squeezed the optimism from Anthony’s spirit.

  Though she had packed it carefully, the rooster had somehow been smashed to flinders on the journey back to England.

  A talisman, indeed.

  “Miss Merton.” The door clicked open after a perfunctory knock. “Might I have a word with you.”

  Jarred from her reveries, Charlotte nearly dropped the piece as she spun around.

  “Now, if you please,” added the slender woman who stood framed in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry but Miss Merton and Lord Sterling stepped out for a moment.” The woman started as Charlotte moved into the ring of light cast by the table lamp. “I apologize for the shock of finding an utter stranger in your house.” Charlotte went on, having no doubt that she was speaking to Elihu Ashton’s widow. “It was terribly impolite to intrude upon you without a formal introduction. I’m Mrs. Sloane, a friend of Lord Sterling. We met Miss Merton in Green Park, and came back here for . . . tea.”

  Mourning did not flatter most women, but somehow the unremitting black only accentuated the woman’s delicate beauty. Silhouetted against the dimly lit corridor, her pale, porcelain-perfect face drew the eye, much like a moth to a flame.

  “It is I who should be apologizing, Mrs. Sloane. I had not realized Miss Merton had guests,” replied Isobel. The dark silk rustled, stirring shadows on shadows. “Please, let us not stand on formalities. I am Mrs. Ashton.”

  A graceful speech, quickly followed by a smile. And yet, there was no warmth to it.

  Realizing the rooster was still in her hands, Charlotte flushed, feeling like a guilty schoolgirl. “I know it’s horribly rag-mannered of me to be poking around in another person’s possessions, but this reminded me of a pi
ece my late husband and I acquired in Italy.” It was manipulative, perhaps, to hint at her own widowhood. But maybe she could turn this initial awkwardness to her advantage.

  The chill melted ever so slightly from Isobel’s lips. “It brings back fond memories?”

  “Yes. But alas, ours was destroyed during the voyage back to England.” Charlotte set it back on the table. “Again, I apologize for my bad manners.”

  A throaty laugh. “I, too, am a guest in this house, so be assured you’ve caused no offense. Most of the possessions you see don’t belong to me either.”

  The widow had a unique vitality that most people would find appealing, thought Charlotte, seeing a spark come to life in the other woman’s eyes. Most especially men. Strange that Wrexford hadn’t made mention of it. He was usually perceptive about such things and quick to comment on them.

  “But as it so happens, that rooster did travel here with us,” continued Isobel. “It was given to my husband as a jest by some friends. Like an owl, he tended to work in the dark of night, so was he was not an early riser.”

  Charlotte smiled politely.

  “He found it highly amusing, though I’m surprised he brought it along on this trip.” The widow regarded it for a long moment. “I can’t say that I see its charms.”

  “It has no intrinsic artistic value,” agreed Charlotte. “One would have to feel a sentimental attachment to see any worth in it.”

  “I don’t claim to have an eye for art of any kind. I prefer music to paintings.” As the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the corridor, Isobel shifted and then suddenly moved to the table and took up the figurine. “Please, I’d like for you to have it.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t,” protested Charlotte, taken aback by the unexpected offer.

  “You would actually be doing me a great favor,” responded the widow. “It would save me the trouble of transporting it back to Leeds.”

  Before Charlotte could reply, Octavia hurried into the room, followed closely by Jeremy.

  “Oh, you need not have troubled yourself to come to me, Mrs. Ashton,” Octavia exclaimed. The words belied the daggers in her eyes. “I was just seeing to having tea served to Lord Sterling and Mrs. Sloane before responding to your summons.”