Murder at Half Moon Gate

by Andrea Penrose

  She knocked softly on the casement to catch their attention. “How did the lessons go?”

  “Oiy!” Hawk scrambled to his feet, knocking his troops to flinders. “Mr. Linsley is a great gun! We’re going te study lots of wery interesting things, and we practiced our penmanship.” He hurried to his desk and fetched a piece of ruled foolscap for her to see. “Look!”

  “Very handsome, indeed!”

  “I’ll soon be able te help ye letter in yer drawings.”

  “I daresay you’ll soon be creating your own satires,” she replied with a smile. Hawk had a lovely imagination, and she had already noted his skill with a pencil. “Art is a very gentlemanly pursuit.”

  Raven made a rude sound.

  “A talent for sketching is much admired,” she assured his brother before shifting her gaze back to Raven. His nose was still buried in the book, which she hoped was a good sign.

  “And how did you find Mr. Linsley?” she asked him.

  “He likes mathematics,” came the reply. “And says numbers can be used to understand all sorts of interesting things—like how far a cannonball can fly and how ships can navigate by calculating the angle of the sun.”

  “He gave Raven a book about numbers,” said Hawk.

  “And you are enjoying it?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Raven finally looked up. “I am.”

  Charlotte smiled, just enough to look pleased, but not interfering.

  “Well, then, I won’t disturb your reading any longer.” She moved to the door. “But after supper might I ask you to run an errand for me? I need to send Lord Wrexford a note and it’s important he receives it this evening.”

  “O’ course.” Raven’s eyes sharpened. “Book learning ain’t gonna turn us soft.”

  “Isn’t,” she corrected. “You may stay tough as hobnails, and still speak like a proper gentleman.”

  * * *

  “Please tell me you’ve made some progress with the murders.” Sheffield entered the earl’s workroom and slouched into one of the armchairs with a disgruntled huff. “I’m bored. And as my pockets are to let, I’ve no way of entertaining myself.”

  “Take up a hobby.” Wrexford looked up from trying to make any sense of the jumbled numbers he had found at Hollis’s quarters. Frustration had his temper on edge. He had still not managed to track down Henning, which along with Hillhouse’s absence, had him feeling that he was simply spinning in circles.

  “Reading, perhaps?” he added sarcastically. “The laws of probability would make an excellent subject to study.”

  “Oh, please.” Sheffield gave a theatrical wince. “I’m trying to relieve the ache in my head, not slam a spike through my skull.” After crossing his legs and staring moodily at the tips of his boots, he added, “Is there really nothing?”

  Wrexford set aside his pen. “Nothing overly useful. The assistant, Hillhouse, contrived to be absent from our arranged interview, so I’ve yet to have a word with him. However, Mrs. Sloane was engaged to meet with both him and Miss Merton earlier this afternoon. So perhaps she will have learned something meaningful.” Though in truth, he was beginning to fear that the case was tangled in so many knots that it might never be unraveled.

  Sheffield straightened. “I swear, there are times when her powers to conjure information out of thin air is rather frightening. How the devil did she bring about that connection?”

  “In this case, the answer is far more mundane than magic. They have a mutual friend, who has arranged the meeting.”

  “Who?”

  “A friend from her youth, who apparently attended university with Hillhouse.”

  “What sort of friend?” pressed Sheffield.

  The question only exacerbated Wrexford’s simmering frustration. “If you are so bloody curious, ask her yourself,” he snapped. “Perhaps, for once, you’ll get lucky.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. “My apologies, Kit. That was a rotten thing to say.”

  “Aye, it was.” Sheffield, however, didn’t look offended. “But no less deserved. I make a mull of many things.” He gave a wry grimace. “Though you have to admit, I do seem to have some skill in helping you ferret out dastardly villains.”

  “That you do.” Wrexford was grateful for the show of good-humored camaraderie. For all his faults, Sheffield was a loyal friend. And he knew that his own mercurial moods were not easy to tolerate.

  “I shall take that as permission to pour myself a glass of your excellent brandy,” murmured Sheffield.

  As he watched his friend saunter to the sideboard, an idea occurred to him. A way not only to make amends, but also to pursue an idea that had slowly, unwillingly been taking shape in his head. “You know, now that you mention villains, perhaps there is something you can do to help.”

  Sheffield paused, decanter in hand.

  “You recall the donkey’s arse we encountered at the gaming hell—Kirkland?”

  A nod.

  “I thought nothing of it—a mere chance encounter—until I met him again at Mrs. Ashton’s temporary residence here in London. It turns out he’s the son of her late husband’s primary investor.” Wrexford went on to explain about the viscount’s unexpected appearance, and the widow’s reaction to his presence.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if Kirkland is involved in something havey-cavey,” said Sheffield, once the earl had finished. He set the brandy back on the tray. “Word is, he’s become badly dipped lately and is desperate to find the funds to pay off his debts—not only his gambling vowels but also his loans from the cent-per-cent men.”

  “He’s had dealings with moneylenders?” Wrexford frowned. A desperate sign, indeed. They charged exorbitant interest, up to one hundred percent on a loan, and failure to come up with the blunt at the appointed time had very unpleasant consequences. Unlike their clients, the cent-per-centers made no pretense of being gentlemen.

  “And yet,” he mused, “the viscount’s father is extremely wealthy.”

  “Kirkland is extremely profligate with his money,” answered Sheffield dryly. “I assumed he was being given unlimited funds for his carousing. But perhaps his pater has tired of refilling the coffers.”

  “One has to assume Kirkland knew about Ashton, and the success of his previous inventions,” said the earl. “And if he was aware of the new project, he would likely know the value of a patent.”

  “The viscount isn’t stupid, merely reckless,” observed his friend. “And his father has become a very wealthy man through making savvy investments in business ventures. I seem to recall he’s part-owner in a number of highly profitable coal mines in Wales.”

  “So, Kirkland, of all people, understands the potential of metal and steam to generate money,” interjected Wrexford.

  “Yes,” said Sheffield, warming to the subject. “But even assuming he was clever enough to come up with a plot to steal Ashton’s invention, it seems to me he would need to partner with someone who possessed technical expertise. Wouldn’t it stir suspicions if he were to claim such an innovation on his own?”

  A good point. But like a spider spinning and spinning, the conversation was starting to weave a tantalizing web of connections.

  “It would,” agreed Wrexford. “However, as Kirkland has grown up amidst talk of business dealings, he’d be aware of that.” Steepling his fingers, he paused to think back on what he knew about some of the earlier steam engine patents. “Let’s take a moment to follow this thread. Ashton’s idea for financing his work wasn’t new. There’s a precedent for an inventor forming a partnership with investors in order to fund the actual manufacture of the machinery. The genius of James Watt and his innovation in steam power might never have seen the light of day had not he forged an alliance with Boulton, who had the money to make the concept a profitable reality. Watt and Boulton steam engines have dominated the mining and textile manufacturing industries for nearly half a century. A radically different model which offers a whole new level of performa
nce would revolutionize production.”

  “And who could afford not to buy one?” said Sheffield, finishing the earl’s thought.

  “As we’ve said, the key to the plan is having someone who’s knowledgeable in the technology, not only to be a credible applicant but also to build a working model that proves the idea is not just hot air.” Wrexford paused. “And what more perfect person than Hillhouse?”

  “Science is a popular topic of conversation these days,” he went on. “The talk has sparked an awareness of how scientific discoveries will shape the future. If Kirkland could convince some rich acquaintances that he had a friend who had created a revolutionary new engine, it’s reasonable to think he and Hillhouse could form a powerful, well-funded consortium. That in turn would allow him to cut more favorable terms with the cent-per-centers.”

  “All this assumes he wouldn’t hesitate to cut his father out,” said Sheffield.

  Wrexford smiled grimly. “Rivalry between fathers and sons is as old as history.”

  “It all does seem to fit together rather nicely.” Sheffield appeared equally willing to follow the thread of thought. “There might be people who smell a rat, but inventors tend to be secretive, and as Ashton never made his sketches public, it would be hard to accuse Hillhouse of having stolen the idea.”

  Wrexford rose and began to pace, mulling over the sudden shifting and reshaping of the puzzle’s pieces. Was it true perception or was the lens distorted by wishful thinking?

  ‘Speculation is all very well,” he muttered. “But as a man of science, I know it’s imperative to base conclusions on facts and empirical knowledge, not mere conjectures.”

  “Then I had better get to work and see what facts I can learn about Kirkland,” responded Sheffield.

  His friend, noted the earl, hadn’t touched a drop of brandy. As he had long suspected, Sheffield, if given a choice, seemed to find a cerebral challenge more intoxicating than idle dissipation.

  “I’m grateful, Kit. Keep in mind that any information you can dig up on his relationship with the lovely widow would also be most helpful,” he said. “And the sooner, the better, before we trip over any more dead bodies.” As Shakespeare had so aptly observed, family tragedies had a penchant for being written in blood.

  “Cherchez la femme?” quizzed his friend. “Mrs. Sloane might take umbrage on our assuming that there is always a woman lurking behind the evil of men.”

  “Mrs. Sloane reads the classical literature. I’ve seen the books on her desk—including the Iliad.”

  “It’s your hubris she’ll skewer, not mine, Wrex,” replied Sheffield. “Thank God.”

  “She’s welcome to prove me wrong. I’m quite willing to sacrifice my pride, as long as it’s on the alter of Truth.”

  His friend raised an empty glass in a mock toast. “To Veritas.”

  Yes, to Truth, thought the earl. Whatever it might be.

  CHAPTER 16

  The note duly written and dispatched to the earl, Charlotte made herself enter her workroom and take a seat at her desk. Of late, she had been woefully neglectful of her art. Ink and pigment had been shoved aside by the overwhelming demands of reality. The move, the murders, the worries about the boys adjusting to a new life.

  Her own feelings were, she admitted, still a little topsy-turvy. Hidden away in the shadows of slums, she had a certain degree of simplicity to her life, allowing her to focus all her passions and ideas through her pen. Art and commentary were her voice.

  Now things were infinitely more complicated. Anonymity had been a protective cloak. With each inch that she pushed back its concealing hood, she was making herself vulnerable.

  Change entailed risk.

  Charlotte shifted her gaze to her open sketchbook. She had only to look at the preliminary sketches for her Man versus Machine series of prints to see that.

  Taking up her pen knife, she set about preparing a fresh quill. Mr. Fores had actually proved to be surprisingly supportive of the serious subject. Though the prints didn’t sell quite as well as the ones ridiculing the Royal family, he took satisfaction in the fact that nearly every government department and all the leading politicians were sending messengers to purchase copies of them. That his shop was seen as shaping public opinion was, to his canny mind, a worthwhile investment.

  More than that, Charlotte was of the opinion that, at heart, Mr. Fores was a secret supporter of social reform.

  The pen was now ready. There was nothing new she could—or would—say about Ashton’s death. However, there were still myriad questions to explore about the revolution sweeping through manufacturing in England. What place did people have in a world where machines made their efforts obsolete? What lay ahead for those who toiled with their hands?

  These were important issues. And ones fundamental to what sort of society the country envisioned for its future.

  The smoothness of the shaft, the softness of the feathery filaments grazing her knuckles—Charlotte realized how much she had missed creating the images and words that challenged people to think and react.

  Science and technology were important. But so was art and abstract ideas.

  A quick dip loaded the point with ink. Turning to a fresh page in her sketchbook, she began to rough out a preliminary idea.

  * * *

  “Milord, you have a visitor who is demanding an immediate audience.”

  Wrexford didn’t look up from his laboratory notes. Having abandoned his efforts with the numbers, he was using his earlier experiment to keep his mind occupied. “What can you be thinking, Riche? You know the rules about interrupting my work.”

  “My thoughts, sir,” replied the butler with a sniff, “are that I would prefer to face your ire than risk having the Young Person cut out my liver with the nasty-looking knife he has clutched in his grubby fist.”

  “Ah.” The earl snapped the pages shut. “I take it Master Sloane is at the door.”

  Tyler, who was busy cleaning the scientific instruments on one of the work counters, let out a snicker.

  “Yes, milord. May I show him in?”

  “I suppose you had better do so. It would be a cursed inconvenience to have to hire a new butler.”

  “Indeed it would,” quipped Tyler. “Finding someone willing to tolerate your moods would be no easy task.”

  Riche padded off without comment.

  “M’lady said this was urgent,” announced Raven without preamble as he hurried into the room and slapped a folded sheet of paper down on the earl’s desktop.

  “Thank you.” Wrexford picked it up. “Where’s your shadow?”

  “We came in through the alleyway by the mews. One of the grooms was currying a big black stallion and he said Hawk could stay and watch.” Raven looked around. “Wot’s that?” he added abruptly, his gaze fixing on the large brass apparatus Tyler was polishing.

  “A microscope.” He cracked the wax seal. “Its lenses magnify things to many times their real size.”

  The boy continued staring.

  The note was longer than Charlotte’s usual terse missives. “Tyler, show the lad how it works while I have a look at this.”

  The sound of their voices faded to an indistinct hum as Wrexford read the news of Hillhouse’s disappearance. Had they finally stumbled on to the scent of the villains? His blood quickened at the thought that the hunt was on in earnest. But he made himself hold his excitement in check.

  A difficult task, as Charlotte’s very next sentences spelled out the details of Hillhouse’s youthful moral lapse. Granted, a single mistake didn’t damn a man for eternity. However, if money had proved an irresistible temptation once, it might well again.

  Evidence. At least he was beginning to gather evidence, rather than just sit and spin theories. After re-reading the note, he took his time to consider the facts and what they might mean. Hillhouse, Kirkland . . . and Isobel Ashton? Lost in concentration, he wasn’t sure how many minutes had ticked by when a muted exclamation pulled him from his thoughts.<
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  “Oiy!” Raven lifted his head from the microscope’s eyepiece, a look of wonder warring with wariness. “Yer bamming me, ain’t ye?” he said to Tyler. “It’s a trick—that ain’t really the eye of a gnat?”

  The valet grinned. “It is, lad.” He slid out two thin glass plates and showed the boy the tiny insect pressed between them.

  “How does it work?” demanded Raven, touching a curious—and none-too-clean—finger to the gleaming metal.

  Tyler winced but bit back any chiding, choosing instead to launch into an explanation of the convex and concave lenses.

  The boy, noted Wrexford, asked very intelligent questions.

  “Come, let me show you a drop of water,” said the valet, warming up to the subject. “You’ll be amazed at what the naked eye can’t see.”

  As Wrexford rose, he saw Raven’s face fall. “Ye got a note ready fer me te take back?” he asked, reluctantly sliding down from his stool

  The earl had not yet decided how to respond in writing. Charlotte’s message seemed to confirm that he and Sheffield were pursuing a promising path, but there were many questions he wished to discuss with her. It was all still conjecture, and with a sudden start, he realized how much he had come to value her judgment.

  The boy darted a longing look back at the microscope.

  Clenching his teeth in frustration, Wrexford realized that a visit was not possible at this hour. Now that she had settled in to a more respectable neighborhood, the rules had changed. He could no longer come and go without stirring malicious gossip.

  “No need for you to rush off quite yet. I need to think for a bit,” he said to Raven. He turned for the door, and then added, “Tyler does have a tendency to rattle on like a loose screw, so if you’re finding him a posy bore, you are welcome to wait in the kitchens.”

  “Naw, s’alright, I don’t mind,” replied Raven, exaggerating an indifferent shrug.

  Once in the corridor, Wrexford headed for his study, the thump of his steps stirring the emptiness to life. Shadows uncoiled from shadows, dark, taunting shapes twisting and turning through the flickers of lamplight.