Murder at Half Moon Gate

by Andrea Penrose

  Hearing no disturbance in the corridor, she ducked into the dressing room. A large painted armoire held a number of gowns, while next to it sat two trunks with several smaller traveling cases stacked next to them. Faced with a choice, Charlotte made her decision quickly and headed for the luggage. If the letters were hidden within the silks and satins, they would remain safe from her prying eyes.

  Unlatching the small brass-banded box that sat atop the others revealed a collection of pens, bottled inks, and sealing wax. No papers, and the thin layer of felt was glued tightly to the interior wood, allowing no hiding place.

  The sense of urgency was growing. Drawing a breath to settle her spiking nerves, Charlotte quickly shut it and moved on to the next one.

  Damn. It held only ribbon-trimmed ballroom slippers.

  The dark, smooth ebony of the bottom case was cold to the touch—or maybe it was just that the blood pulsing through her fumbling fingers was heating to a hellfire pitch. It took several tries to open it before she realized it was locked. Once again, she plucked the pin from her hair and worked the catch free.

  Charlotte felt a spurt of surprise on seeing the contents were all items belonging to a gentleman. She picked up the handsome pocketwatch and turned it over. EJA were the ornate entwined initials engraved in the gold case. Her husband’s personal effects? That made perfect sense. Mrs. Ashton would naturally wish to ensure they were kept safe.

  Logic said there was nothing to be gained by a further search. But a hunch was prickling at the tips of her fingers so Charlotte delved deeper. Several briarwood pipes . . . a pouch of watch fobs, a battered leather sketchbook . . .

  Was that a noise coming from the corridor?

  She pulled it free and began thumbing through the pages. Faster, faster.

  More sounds—she couldn’t linger any longer.

  As the cover snapped shut, a small folded sheet of stationery fluttered free. A rushed look showed it was addressed to Isobel. That was enough to make up her mind. Charlotte jammed it down her bodice and hurriedly put everything back in order.

  A quick dash brought her to the doorway, where she halted to cock an ear.

  Octavia’s voice rose from the foot of the stairs. “. . . suffering a beastly headache. I fear the smallest sound will be agony to her.”

  Charlotte rushed to Octavia’s door and after fluffing her skirt, assumed a slow, shuffling step as she headed for the landing.

  “I apologize for upsetting the household,” she said weakly.

  Both Mrs. Ashton and Octavia looked up. A man was standing several paces behind the widow. He, too, darted a glance at Charlotte, then quickly averted his eyes. Head bowed, he began toying with the brim of his hat.

  “There is no need to apologize, Mrs. Sloane,” said Octavia. “Illness is nothing to trifle with. You must rest for as long as need be.” She turned to Mrs. Ashton. “I’m sure you agree.”

  “Of course,” answered the widow slowly. “I simply need a moment to fetch some papers from my desk for Mr. Blodgett before he leaves, then we’ll leave you in peace and quiet until you’re feeling better, Mrs. Sloane.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but it’s truly not necessary. The worst has passed.” Charlotte started down, leaning heavily on the bannister. “Indeed, I think it best if I return to my residence, where I have powders to help prevent a further attack. My maid is still delayed at the modiste shop . . . but Miss Merton, if I might trouble you to accompany me in a hackney . . .”

  “I would be happy to do so.” With a rustling of skirts, Octavia joined her on the stairs. “Please allow me to assist you.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Charlotte, accepting her friend’s arm.

  Mrs. Ashton stepped aside to let them pass. “I do hope you’ll recover quickly.”

  “Thankfully the attacks come infrequently, but alas, they give no warning.” She gave a small wince. “And tend to be severe while they last.”

  “Then please don’t let me keep you,” replied Mrs. Ashton.

  Blodgett shuffled back deeper into the shadows to make room for them to move through the archway leading to the entrance hall. He was a handsome man, noted Charlotte in passing. His gaze kept darting to the widow—the woman seemed to attract men like flies to honey—but as he shifted, his eyes met with Charlotte’s for an instant.

  Passion. For all his show of proper subservience, Charlotte caught the hot spark of some fierce emotion before he looked away.

  Was Blodgett another of Isobel’s conquests? Or was it infatuation from afar? He was the mill’s supervisor . . . Good God, could he, too, be involved in taking control of Ashton’s business?

  She forced herself to push such thoughts away until later. Her nerves were on edge—perhaps she was merely seeing specters.

  Playing her role well, Octavia guided Charlotte down the front steps. Neither of them spoke until they were in a hackney and navigating through the crush of carriages on Piccadilly Street.

  “Well?” Octavia was whispering despite the noise of the traffic. “Did you find anything?”

  “Perhaps.” Charlotte withdrew the paper from her bodice—now slightly crumpled—and smoothed it out in her lap. “You’re familiar with Ashton’s writing.” She held up the top note. “Is this his hand?”

  The reply came without hesitation. “No.”

  “Take a closer look. I need for you to be absolutely certain.”

  “I’ve handled Eli’s correspondence since I was fifteen,” replied Octavia. “The slant and the roundness of the letterforms are all wrong. He did not pen that note.”

  Charlotte accepted her word for it. “Then yes, I think we’ve found something interesting. You see, it begins My Dear Isobel, and since you’re sure it wasn’t written by Ashton, it certainly stirs suspicions.” She went on to explain where she had found the note and why she had taken it.

  Octavia edged forward on her seat. “What does the rest of it say?”

  A slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as Charlotte skimmed the short message.

  “My Dear Isobel,” she read, “There’s no need to worry that anyone will learn of our sordid little secret. Just remain calm and do as I tell you, and we’ll both get what we want.”

  Charlotte looked up. “It’s simply signed with the letter D.”

  “Lord Kirkland’s Christian name is Dermott,” said Octavia.

  “I’m aware of that.” Her smile widened. “Granted, it’s still circumstantial. But we may be slowly tightening the noose around the necks of the villains responsible for Elihu Ashton’s death.”

  The wheels lurched as the hackney rolled onto the narrower streets and rougher paving stones of her new neighborhood. A reminder that Mayfair, with all its glitter and glamor, was still a world apart from hers.

  I must never forget that.

  “Mrs. Sloane . . .”

  Charlotte was roused from her own musings by the tentative words.

  “Might I ask you a question?”

  Shadows flitted between them, sharp and jumpy, like the rattling of the vehicle and clattering of hooves. She nodded an assent, careful to make no promise to answer it.

  “I can’t help but be curious on how you seem so skilled at clandestine activities.”

  “There is an old adage about curiosity killing the cat,” murmured Charlotte.

  Octavia didn’t smile. “Which is to say you aren’t going to give me an answer?”

  “Correct.”

  The sigh was swallowed in the street noise. “My guess is you’re a government spy.” Octavia plucked at a fold in her skirts and gave a wry grimace. “But I don’t suppose you would admit to it if that were true.”

  “You have a very creative imagination, Miss Merton. However, allowing it to run wild can lead to trouble. Let’s just say that life’s challenges have taught me certain pragmatic tricks for survival.”

  Octavia remained silent, a pensive look shading her face.

  Charlotte turned her attention to the note still in her
hand. She read it again, then refolded it and tucked it back into her bodice. Wrexford must, of course, see it without delay. Sheffield would likely recognize Kirkland’s handwriting from seeing the viscount’s gaming vowels. Bow Street couldn’t ignore the web of intrigue woven by the short message . . .

  The hackney slowed to a halt.

  “What do we do next?” asked Octavia as Charlotte took hold of the door latch. “Benedict—”

  “Patience, Miss Merton,” she cut in. “For now, discretion is the better part of valor. You must concentrate on giving nothing away to Mrs. Ashton. Lord Wrexford and I must have a council of war. Our enemy is clever . . .”

  From outside came the sounds of the horse snorting and stomping.

  “But so are we.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Pressure, volume, temperature,” muttered Wrexford to himself as he entered his townhouse and headed straight for his workroom. “If the temperature remains unchanged within a closed system . . .” He flung open the door, and marched to the bookshelf above the spirit lamp. “Then the absolute pressure and volume of a specific mass of enclosed gas is inversely proportional.”

  “Boyle’s Law,” said Tyler, without looking up from the eyepiece of the microscope.

  “Yes, Boyle.” The earl quirked a grimace. “Do you, perchance, recall if he experimented with steam?”

  “With a name like that, one would hope so,” quipped Tyler.

  “Stubble the attempts at humor, if you please. As the patron saint of modern chemistry, the fellow deserves the utmost respect from the likes of you.”

  “I do know the august history of science in our realm, sir.”

  Ignoring the comment, the earl selected several volumes on chemistry and carried them to his desk. “But enough on the past. Let us focus on the present. I’ve just come from speaking with Horatio Johnson and Joseph Clement, and their answers to my questions have convinced me that Ashton’s new design for a steam engine is technically feasible and will work.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said the valet. “He was one of those rare geniuses who was not only a brilliant theorist, but actually possessed the engineering skills to fabricate what he envisioned.”

  “Yes,” agreed Wrexford. “But there’s just one problem.” He began thumbing through the pages of the top book.

  “Which is?” prompted Tyler.

  “The chemical composition of the iron used in the boiler. Ashton’s increase in power is based on his revolutionary valve design, which creates much higher levels of steam pressure than in previous engines. To ensure new machines won’t explode, the iron has to be strong enough.”

  Tyler frowned. “Surely he must have been aware of that.”

  “Yes, but he wasn’t a chemist. And to my knowledge, neither is Hillhouse.”

  Wrexford took a long moment to ponder the problem. “My guess is the formulation of the iron was the last element to address before he could build a full-size working model.”

  The drumming of his fingers beat a soft tattoo on the open pages.

  “Are you thinking it’s possible—”

  “Possible that he was murdered by a chemist who decided to steal the invention for himself?” interrupted the earl. “The thought has occurred to me.” The drumming grew louder. “Though it wreaks havoc with our assumption about the widow, Kirkland, and McKinlock.”

  Tyler pushed his chair back from the worktable. “Well, as you are so fond of pointing out, one mustn’t make assumptions about the outcome of an experiment. One must base the answer on empirical data.”

  “Thank you for throwing my words back in my face,” grumbled Wrexford. He made a face. “However, you’re right.” Silence, save for the tap, tap, tapping. “So we must consider two more things. Firstly, I need to learn more about gases and pressure.”

  “Avogadro.” Tyler shot up from his seat and hurried to the bookshelf at the far end of the room. “He’s the leader in that field. And we just received the latest book on his work.”

  “Excellent. I’ll begin reading while you head to the Institution and make some inquiries on who might be working with the composition of metals.”

  “Very good, sir.” The valet brought over the volume. “And when I’m done there, I think I should visit several of the taverns where the ironworkers and toolmakers congregate. They may have heard some useful gossip.”

  As he turned to take his leave, Wrexford muttered, “Would that your questions will help us untangle this damnable coil.”

  * * *

  Charlotte shot yet another impatient glance out the window and muttered an oath under her breath. The sun, shining with an unholy brightness, seemed glued to its spot in the sky rather than following its natural course to drop below the horizon. Even the clouds seemed to be taking perverse pleasure in prolonging the day. They were nowhere to be seen, allowing the light to sparkle with a brilliance that drew an additional unladylike word from her lips.

  Darkness—that concealing cloak which allowed her freedom of movement—couldn’t come soon enough.

  With the boys absent because of their surveillance duties, she had no one to carry a message to Wrexford, leaving her no choice but to do it herself. He wouldn’t be happy about the choice, but so be it.

  In for a halfpenny, in for a guinea.

  The odds were good that he was already furious with her because of today’s print.

  Forcing herself to sit down at her work desk, Charlotte picked up her pen and slid a blank piece of sketching paper onto her blotter. Mr. Fores would expect a new drawing as soon as possible. The topic was provocative—and he would expect to profit from it.

  The ink-rich nib moved in a series of skirling circles as an idea began to take shape. It was, she decided, time to press a little harder on the subject of just how much money a patent could be worth.

  * * *

  “Kirkland has finally moved on from White’s,” announced Sheffield as he sauntered into the earl’s workroom. “Having lost a goodly sum, I might add.”

  Roused from a deep study, Wrexford needed a moment to react. Pinching at the bridge of his nose, he realized day had turned into evening. The room was wreathed in shadows, the last muted purple and gold hues of twilight fast fading into shades of charcoal.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Well past the supper hour,” responded his friend. “I asked Riche to bring in a collation of meat and cheese, along with a bottle of claret, to keep starvation at bay.”

  “Do you think of nothing but your stomach?”

  “Occasionally I contemplate my cravats. Do you think my valet uses too much starch?”

  “Remind me again of why I allow you to run tame in my house,” snapped Wrexford. His eyes were aching. Avogadro’s book had proved less helpful than he had hoped . . . and his stomach was growling, which only exacerbated his fast-darkening mood.

  “Because there are times I prove useful,” replied Sheffield. “To my point, you turn snappish when your breadbox is empty, and thus don’t think as clearly. So you ought to be thanking me for ordering the food.”

  The earl gave a grunt.

  “But even more importantly . . .” Sheffield held up the roll of paper he was carrying. “I brought you A. J. Quill’s latest print.”

  Wrexford felt a stab of unease. Charlotte had been silent of late, honoring his request that she refrain from stirring up public interest in Ashton’s murder. But all that pent-up passion for justice was a powder keg just waiting to explode.

  “And?” he said.

  “And you had better have a look for yourself.”

  He accepted the print without comment and, after shoving his books aside, slowly unrolled it.

  Sheffield clasped his hands behind his back and began to whistle softly through his teeth.

  Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor, decided the earl. Music for a funeral. His friend’s sense of humor was nearly as sardonic as his own.

  “You’re digging your own grave,” he warned. “Another not
e and my pantries and wine cellar will close up tighter than a crypt.”

  The sound immediately stopped.

  Focusing his attention on the art, Wrexford made a thorough study of the image and words, willing himself not to react until he’d considered all the ramifications.

  It was, he conceded, very cleverly done. Diabolically clever, in fact. The question of who profited from patents fit into her overall theme of Man vs. Machine, so in some ways could be seen as an innocent question. But there were just enough allusions to Ashton’s mill and his earlier improvements in steam power to stoke the fires of speculation on whether his unfortunate demise had a darker meaning. After all, in every circle of London society, A. J. Quill’s hints of intrigue were known to have substance.

  “That ought to poke a stick into the nest of vipers, whoever they may be,” observed Sheffield.

  “It is,” said Wrexford in a carefully controlled voice, “a very good thing the infernally infuriating A. J. Quill is not present. Else I might to tempted to—”

  A leathery thump cut off his words. The room suddenly turned colder as a sharp gust of air, redolent with the damp smokiness of night, swirled through the open window.

  “If you wish to vent your spleen, milord, do so at me.” Charlotte straightened from her jump down off the sill and stomped a clump of mud off her boots. “Not the poor messenger of my misdeeds.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Sloane.” Sheffield inclined a polite nod. “As always, you look very fetching in breeches.”

  Wrexford signaled him to silence. “Impossible woman—are you looking to get your throat cut?” he demanded without preamble.

  Charlotte didn’t flinch. “I take it that is a rhetorical question?”

  “Actually, it’s not,” he retorted. “A.J. Quill’s identity may be well-guarded, but as you are so fond of telling me, no secret is ever really safe.”

  “Yes, well, we’re all gamblers in one way or another.” Charlotte paused to tuck a loose curl under her floppy wool cap. “And as you are so fond of telling me, a careful weighing of chance and probability before playing a hand turns the odds in one’s favor.”

  “Theoretically,” he shot back. “When a gambler loses, it’s usually one’s purse, not one’s life.”