Murder at Half Moon Gate

by Andrea Penrose

  Isobel eyed Jeremy, her expression inscrutable. “How kind of you to stop by, Lord Sterling.”

  Charlotte realized that of course they must know each other.

  “I’m so glad to have the chance to express my condolences in person, Mrs. Ashton,” he answered smoothly, as if he hadn’t heard the hint of friction in her voice. “It is a great loss for you, and for all of us who considered your husband a friend.”

  “Thank you.” A pause as her gaze took on a speculative gleam.

  Jeremy often drew such looks from women, thought Charlotte. But this one seemed strangely impersonal.

  “Elihu enjoyed your company, and your intellectual curiosity,” went on Isobel. “Most of his investors are not particularly interested in his ideas, merely what they produce.”

  Was that an edge of bitterness, wondered Charlotte. Or some other emotion?

  Jeremy acknowledged her words with a small nod. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

  The majolica rooster suddenly felt heavy as lead in Charlotte’s hands. The air of perfect politeness wasn’t fooling anyone. Beneath it crackled a current of tension.

  Octavia’s eye was drawn to the flutter of color. “Ah, I see you’ve found Eli’s pet.”

  The widow stiffened at the use of her husband’s name.

  “He was very fond of that silly bird,” added Octavia.

  “It seems Mrs. Sloane had a sentimental attachment to a similar one from her past,” replied Isobel. A pause, made with an actress’s instinct for effect. “So I’ve made it a gift to her. I know Elihu would be delighted that it will bring pleasure to someone who’ll appreciate it, now that he’s gone.”

  The color drained from Octavia’s face. “But . . .”

  “But what?” asked Isobel softly. Steel within silk. Her looks might deceive a great many people, but Charlotte wasn’t fooled. Beneath the widow’s fragile femininity, she sensed there was a will that would break before it would ever bend.

  Octavia bit her bloodless lip.

  “If Miss Merton would take comfort in having it as a token—” began Charlotte.

  “She has a great many mementos of my husband, if indeed such things have any sentimental meaning to her,” said Isobel firmly. “However, I doubt that is the case. Miss Merton has said on numerous occasions that she prides herself on being ruled by reason and practicality, not emotion.” A glance at Octavia. “Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes.” The whisper had no breath behind it.

  “So you see, Mrs. Sloane, the matter is settled. It gives me great pleasure to know the piece of pottery will have an appreciative home.”

  Charlotte had no choice. To refuse the gift would appear unforgivably churlish. “That’s exceedingly generous of you.”

  “Not at all,” replied the widow frankly. “True generosity is when you part from something that has value to you.”

  Charlotte sensed her mettle was being tested. “Then call it charitable. An act of kindness to a stranger.”

  Amusement touched Isobel’s lips. “I would have suggested pragmatic. As I said, it saves me the worry of transporting a fragile object—and the guilt of breaking something which Elihu enjoyed.”

  “Pragmatism,” murmured Charlotte, “is, to my mind, a worthy trait.” Especially for a woman.

  “Indeed.” The windows rattled as a rising gust slapped against the diamond-shaped pane. A spattering of raindrops ricocheted against the glass. Octavia started, but the widow didn’t flinch.

  Isobel Ashton, decided Charlotte, would be a formidable enemy.

  The shadows deepened and darkened within the room. A rattling suddenly sounded in the corridor as well, along with tentative footsteps. Looking uncertain, the young maid carrying the heavily-laden tea tray hesitated upon entering the room.

  “Do come in,” said Isobel. “And please light the other lamps for our guests.”

  “I think it might be better if we put off tea to another time,” suggested Jeremy. “I sense we’ve come at an inconvenient time.”

  “No,” exclaimed Octavia. Her chin rose in challenge. “That is, there’s no need for you to go. If Mrs. Ashton has something she wishes to discuss with me, I’m perfectly happy to do so now.”

  Isobel coolly ignored the protest. “Thank you, Lord Sterling. I appreciate your understanding. Another time would be best.” To Octavia, she said, “I wish to speak with you about Mr. Hillhouse and his whereabouts. I was obliged for the second time to inform Lord Wrexford that he was not here.”

  “There’s no need for you to see us out,” murmured Jeremy. “The maid will do so.”

  Charlotte shifted her gift and accepted his arm. As they turned to go, she couldn’t help but notice that Octavia had slumped back against the bookshelves. Although her hands were fisted in her skirts, they seemed to be shaking. And her face looked like death warmed over.

  CHAPTER 15

  As soon as they reached the street, McClellan trailing behind them with the majolica rooster cradled in her arms, Charlotte tightened her grip on Jeremy’s arm and turned away from the waiting carriage. “Let us take a walk around the square before the driver takes me home.”

  He looked unhappy about the request, but surrendered with a sigh.

  “I’ve really nothing more to report from my private time with Miss Merton,” he murmured, once they had crossed to the central garden and passed through the wrought iron gates. “Benedict didn’t return home last night, and aside from expressing anxiety, she had no specific reason as to why.”

  “But it does seem ominous, doesn’t it?” pressed Charlotte.

  Jeremy lifted his shoulders in sudden exasperation. “The devil take it, Charley—I don’t know! Grief grabs people in different ways. Perhaps he’s drunk himself into a blind stupor, or perhaps he’s sought solace in the bed of some willing wench.”

  He quickened his pace, sending a spray of pebbles skittering into the grass. “I’m not sure there’s any need to panic.”

  “But Miss Merton seems awfully alarmed,” pressed Charlotte. “And she knows him very well.”

  “Not,” replied Jeremy through clenched teeth, “as well as I do.”

  Charlotte stole a sidelong glance at his profile and felt a frisson of alarm. After darting an involuntary look behind her, she demanded, “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “Bloody hell—don’t badger me!”

  She stumbled and nearly lost her footing. Never in all their years of friendship had Jeremy sworn at her.

  He caught her arm and steadied her steps. “Dear God, forgive me.” Remorse tightened his voice to a hoarse whisper. “It’s just that some secrets should stay hidden.”

  Dread clenched in her belly, turning her insides to ice.

  Sensing her reaction, he blew out a harried breath. “It’s nothing to do with me, or my sordid secret, if that is what’s worrying you.”

  How can I not be worried—nay, how can I not be terrified?

  They walked on in uneasy silence. She dared not press him. Their friendship—now hanging by a fragile thread, she feared—was worth more than the information.

  Let Wrexford wield the spade if he wished to dig for the truth.

  “I’m not angry with you,” Jeremy finally murmured, forcing a ghost of a smile. “I’m angry at the twist of Fate that will unfairly resurrect the past and perhaps send Benedict to the gallows.”

  Charlotte kept her gaze locked straight ahead. It was up to him to decide how much to confide.

  “I know as well as you do that long-buried secrets have a way of coming back to life,” he explained. “Given the publicity around Ashton’s death, it’s inevitable that someone will speak up.” He swallowed hard. “Benedict made a terrible mistake in his youth . . .”

  Crunch, crunch. The sound of their steps on the gravel seemed to echo the ragged thumping of her heart.

  “Like me, he hadn’t a feather to fly with at university. It’s difficult to be poor, scrabbling for the bare necessities while your peers have
bagfuls of blunt for the pursuit of idle pleasures.”

  Still she remained silent.

  Jeremy released a sigh, which was quickly swallowed in the soft swishing of the leaves stirring in the breeze.

  “He desperately needed textbooks for his chemistry studies. Expensive ones. So late one night, when he saw one of our wealthy friends in the throes of drink stop in one of the narrow lanes and remove his overcoat in order to take a piss . . .”

  Charlotte could well imagine the scene. Drunken laughter. Hide-and-seek moonlight. A moment of temptation.

  “Benedict wasn’t thinking straight. He’d just come from the room of a fellow student, who had plied him with ale,” went on Jeremy. “On impulse, he rushed in to riffle the pockets and found the man’s purse. It took only a moment, but unfortunately he was recognized by two other students as he turned and fled with the money. They gave chase and caught him.”

  The path forced them to circle back toward the gate.

  “Luckily, I heard about the incident right away, and as I had several influential friends willing to help me, I was able to convince the victim not to press charges,” said Jeremy, rushing his words. “I also arranged a small loan for Benedict, enough to purchase the books. He finished his studies and left Cambridge several months after the incident.”

  Oh, Jeremy. A loyal and stalwart friend, no matter how ugly things appeared.

  “I know how remorseful Benedict was about his mistake,” added Jeremy. “He was desperate to get his education and do some good in the world with his scientific gifts.” A pause. “He would never—never—have betrayed Ashton’s trust in him.”

  Her friend had the gift of seeing the best in people. As he had with her. Charlotte only hoped that in this case he hadn’t let the wool be pulled over his eyes.

  “Did Mr. Ashton know of this incident?” asked Charlotte. Recalling Octavia’s frightened face, she added, “And does Miss Merton?”

  “I know Benedict, and I can’t imagine that he didn’t tell them. Despite what I just told you, he is honest to a fault.” His eyes closed, but not quite quickly enough to hide a ripple of doubt. “But I don’t know for sure.”

  Good Lord, what a coil.

  “I think it wise for you to find out,” counseled Charlotte.

  He nodded bleakly.

  She didn’t have the heart to add that it would also be wise for him to consider that his friend might well be guilty. For all his worldly wisdom, Jeremy’s heart was achingly vulnerable. While she had long ago made peace with life’s disillusionments.

  Or have I? Charlotte dared not look at him.

  “By the by,” he said a moment later. “Miss Merton was quite upset about her rudeness to you. She intends to send an apology.”

  “Her discretion was laudable,” murmured Charlotte. “One can’t be too careful.”

  The remark didn’t lighten his mood.

  They waited at the gate for McClellan to catch up with them, and as soon as she did, Jeremy wasted no time in escorting Charlotte to the waiting carriage.

  “I shall walk back to my residence,” he murmured, handing her up the steps.”

  “I will help in any way I can,” she replied softly.

  The angle of his hat hid his face. “I’m not sure what any of us can do.”

  She hated hearing him sound so defeated. “Come, it’s not like you to sound so Friday-faced,” she chided. “If Mr. Hillhouse is innocent, we will prove him so.”

  That drew a grudging smile. “Or God help the devil who stands in your way.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve made it my mission in life to cut devils down to size.” She squeezed his hand. “Semper fortis.” Always brave.

  “Semper fortis,” he repeated. “Would that I had your innate courage.”

  As soon as she took her seat facing McClellan, Jeremy closed the door and called for the driver to be off. The whip cracked and the carriage lurched forward, joining the cacophony of wheels and iron-shod hooves clattering along the busy street.

  Charlotte sank back against the squabs, and pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to compose her thoughts. Worry for her friend set her blood to throbbing. She could feel the slow, rhythmic pulse of heat begin to burn through the thin kidskin gloves. The facts so far certainly seemed to cast a grim shadow of suspicion over Benedict Hillhouse. His disappearance, coming on the heels of another murder, roused all sorts of questions. Including ones about the motive of her dear friend.

  She couldn’t help recalling Octavia’s first outburst—I fear something has gone dreadfully wrong. It seemed a strange phrasing, one that could imply a plan had been in place.

  Wrexford, she was sure, would pounce on that.

  The taste of bile rose up in her throat.

  A jolt of the wheels caused her foot to bump against McClellan’s sturdy half boot. Reminded that she wasn’t alone, Charlotte hastily looked up. The maid was staring out the windowpanes with an aura of unruffled calm that helped soothe her own inner turmoil.

  “Thank you, McClellan,” she murmured.

  The maid turned, and once again Charlotte was struck by the bright intelligence in her mouse-brown eyes.

  “For adding the duties of farmhand to your original assignment,” she quickly added, indicating the majolica rooster nested firmly in McClellan’s lap.

  “Just as long as I’m not expected to pluck any feathers or prepare it for roasting. I’m all thumbs when it comes to kitchen work.”

  Somehow Charlotte doubted that. “I’m also grateful for you not peppering me with questions,” she added truthfully.

  A flicker of sunlight caught the twitch of the maid’s lips. “It’s not my job to do so, Mrs. Sloane.”

  Ah.” She decided to test McClellan’s sangfroid. “But likely it’s your job to answer them, if your employer decides to ask.”

  “I doubt that His Lordship would,” replied the maid.

  An astute answer. “But if he did?”

  “Then I should recount what I have seen. Which has been mostly the backsides of three well-dressed gentry morts out for an afternoon stroll.”

  Charlotte couldn’t hold back a laugh. “I trust Lord Sterling’s posterior helped keep boredom at bay.”

  “He’s a very fine-looking man,” agreed McClellan with a straight face. “Well-fitting boots. They look to have been fashioned by Hoby.”

  “No doubt,” said Charlotte dryly. Jeremy did have long, shapely legs. “He has exquisite taste in clothes. So I imagine he would choose only the best.”

  They shared a quick smile.

  “As for what you’ve heard . . .” Charlotte smoothed at her skirts. “Might I ask what sort of talk was going on in the kitchen?”

  McClellan took her time in answering. “The recent murder of their houseguest has things in a humble-jumble downstairs. The servants are all aware that there’s bad blood between Mr. Ashton’s widow and his two assistants. And it seems that one of them—a Mr. Hillhouse—stayed out all night, and has not yet been seen.”

  “Did they speculate as to why?” asked Charlotte.

  “The maids think him a very handsome fellow, and wouldn’t be surprised if he was tempted to take advantage of the pleasures London has to offer,” replied the maid. “Though one of the tweenies was of the opinion that he and Miss Merton are thick as thieves.”

  Charlotte straightened. “Indeed?” That was interesting to know.

  “Aye. There was also a lot of grumbling about how the master of the house, though rich as Croesus, is a nipcheese when it comes to food and wages.”

  “I suppose that is how the wealthy stay wealthy,” she murmured.

  Amusement danced in McClellan’s eyes. “I wish I knew.”

  Charlotte saw that they were turning into her street. “Thank you for your help,” she said as she slid forward on her seat. “And your company.”

  “I should be thanking you, madam. I escaped an afternoon of helping the housekeeper polish the silver.”

  “A waste of your t
alents,” murmured Charlotte.

  “From your lips to God’s ears.” The maid held out the rooster. “Here, you’ll not want to be forgetting this.”

  In truth, she had mixed feelings about living with a memory resurrected from the past. But too late for that now, conceded Charlotte as her palms cradled the figurine’s smooth weight.

  Unless it happened to slip through her fingers and smash on the pavement.

  A foul thought. The bird deserved a better fate.

  The coachman hopped down from his perch and opened the carriage door.

  Grasping her gift tightly, she carefully descended the iron steps. “Please tell His Lordship that I’ll be sending him a note about the afternoon shortly.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Sloane.”

  Once inside her house, Charlotte cocked an ear for any sign that Raven and Hawk had returned. For a long moment, she feared she was alone, which was not a good omen on how the lessons had gone. However, a reassuring clatter from above—Hawk took great delight in polishing the swords to a looking-glass brightness—told her they were up in their aerie.

  But first things first. The dratted rooster was too fragile for boyish exuberance. Expelling a sigh, she turned into the parlor. For now, its loud colors would add a touch of whimsy to the quiet respectability of the furnishings.

  “Like me, you are a square peg trying to fit in a round hole,” she murmured, placing it on the side table near the windows. Sunlight shimmered through the glass panes as the clouds shifted, warming the reds and cobalts to an even brighter blaze.

  “Quite right—to the Devil with trying to conform to the dictates of good taste.” Charlotte tugged off her gloves and touched a finger to the beaky smile before turning and heading for the stairs.

  The aerie door was open and a glance inside showed Raven was curled on his bed, engrossed in reading a book. Hawk had propped the swords up against the wall between the windows and was busy arranging a regiment of lead soldiers that Jeremy had left in the wooden storage trunks.