He opened the door without knocking, stepped inside and closed it behind him. A man was seated there with very blue eyes and a very red face. His hair was reddish blonde. He was older than Steve's Da had been and his physique showed his age, being rather bowed at the shoulders and thick at the waist line. But it was easy to see that at one time he had been quite fit, and if he were not taller than average, he had once been fairly powerful. Now, he looked flabby, all that one-time muscle gone soft. But he didn't seem concerned about it, and the pistol sitting on his desk, a very odd pistol that Steven had never seen the like of before, made it clear that he had long since given up his fists as his weapon of choice.
“Yeah? What'cha want, lad?” he asked and he smoked something that Steven had never seen before either. It was a long pipe with a small bowl on the end, and the smoke coming from it had a strange, sweet smell that made his stomach ill.
“Me name's Steven. Crockner. Me Da was on a job for you.”
“Don't know nothin' bout dat, lad,” the man said.
“Yer Red, aren't ya?”
The man nodded. The motion of his head was exaggerated, as though he were nodding from sleep rather than in agreement. He drew the pipe from his mouth, and that motion was slow, languid also. Steven had the sudden thought that he could probably pull his pistol and shoot him where he sat before the man could get one of those slow moving hands to the gun that sat on the table.
“I was told t'talk to Red. And you say that's you,” Steven told him.
“Yeah? And who by?”
And Steven said, “Me dead father.”
Red started, the lazy look leaving his eyes, and he pointed with the long stem of his pipe to the chair that Steven had thus far ignored. “Sit, lad, and tell me about yer Da.”
Steven spurned the seat. “Me Da's dead by the man you sent him to kill. T'Duke of St. James. I want to know when and where the next hit is, an' I want t'be in on it. An' I want the money he was to get fer doin' it when I'm done, so's I can support me mother.”
Red stared at him. “Yer on fire for ven'gence, are ye now, lad?”
Steven nodded, his gray eyes unflinching. “Aye. I am 'n' all.”
“An' now ya think yer man enuff t'settle t'score with t'bloke? After ya seen yer own Da couldna do it?”
“Aye,” Steven said again.
“Well, I'd like t'see that 'n' all,” Red chuckled. “Ya got a weapon or was ya plannin on starin him t'death with those mean eyes of yourn?”
For answer, Steven pulled the most of the long dueling pistol from beneath his coat, let it linger there for a brief second, and then pushed it back beneath his waist band again.
Red's eyebrows went up. “From t'looks a that, not the first time you been on a job,” he said, and Steven only smiled. Red looked him up and down, his eyes narrowing. “From t'looks of t'gun 'n' those breeches, I'd wager you've killed yourself some swell,” and he glanced into Steven's face.
But Steven only held to his cold and silent smile.
Red smiled, waved a lazy hand. “Come back t'morrow night then, same time. Ya can keep yer trap shut, well 'nuff, an' ya got the proper nerve t'do it. More than yer Da had, any rate. There'll be some men waitin' fer ya outside.”
And Steven said, “I wants t'same share me father was t'get. Ye tell yer other men not t'be tryin' to cheat me 'cause I'm just a lad. Or I'll be taken theirs from them and sharin' with no one.”
Red shook his head. “I'll tell 'em, lad. But don't be thinkin' that they'll take kindly t'that kinda talk. Likely slit yer throat fer ya.” He sat back, lit up his pipe and drew in a great lungful of creamy smoke. “Not that I care two bits, one way or t'other. Understand that, lad. Ye hire on with me, ye take care of yer own skin.”
And Steven said, “I ken that. I can do that.”
“Tomorrow night, then. We'll see what yer made of, right 'nuff.” And his laugh was a sudden loud boom in Steven's ears as the boy turned and left.
He made it through the crush of men, but they paid him no mind now, only kept to their drinks and their loud conversations, and he pushed through the rickety door of the pub entrance. He walked down the shadowy street, and with each step he took, he began to shake, and finally, he darted into a mew, not unlike the one his father had died in, and his shaking, empty stomach spasmed. But he could throw nothing up, for he had not eaten in the past twenty-four hours.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and set off once again in the night, not headed for his home, for he could not yet face his mother, but headed for the Dowager Duchess's house.
Chapter Twenty-three
Friday Morning
It was well after three in the morning when St. James arrived back to his London home. He rode into the stables and dismounted, and as there were no grooms up at this late hour, he saw to unsaddling his mount (an awkward undertaking as his stitches limited his movement and he was forced to do the most of the work with but his right hand, arm and shoulder) and leading it to its stall.
He walked with weariness from the stables, bypassed the servants entrance and went along the garden path to the side of the house and the French doors that were there. He rubbed at his aching chest as he did so and was deep in thought.
Expecting the doors to be locked when he reached them, he was fumbling in yet another inner pocket of his coat for his keys when it unexpectedly opened. Effington peered out from the doorway. “Is that you, milord?” he asked.
“Damn it, yes, Effington.” St. James glanced at him with annoyance. “Why in the devil are you still up?”
“I should think the answer would be obvious, milord,” Effington sniffed as he closed the door behind the duke.
St. James walked through the drawing room and into the hallway, going toward his study. Effington dogged him, hesitated at the door as St. James struggled from his coat and handed it to the valet, and continued to his desk. “Are you not turning in now, milord?” Effington asked.
“No. And pour me a drink.”
Effington laid the coat upon the back of a chair and followed this instruction.
St. James unlocked the top drawer of his desk, pulled out the file of correspondence between his father and a young Queen Victoria. He didn't sit then, after laying it on top of the desk, but instead strode with agitation about the room, not trusting himself to study it properly when his mind was being distracted by another matter.
Effington held out his drink to him and St. James took it in passing, but even in sipping it, he did not stop pacing, but went to and fro and back and forth, and all the while his left hand held the goblet, his right hand massaged the painful left side of his chest.
“Your wound is bothering you,” Effington observed.
“Hmm,” St. James glanced his way. “Yes. Damn it.”
“You met with this letter writer tonight, milord?” Effington persisted.
“Yes.” St. James turned, paced back. He stopped and stared into the fireplace and unwilling to further endure his preoccupation, asked in a guarded voice, “Miss Murdock?”
Effington sighed. “Gone as you had ordered, milord. With no apparent misadventure.”
St. James nodded, sipped from his glass. “Her demeanor?” he questioned, unable to help himself and very much resenting the fact that he could not.
Effington paused in picking up his lordship's coat once again as though giving his answer some thought. Then he said, “I should say that she was 'defiantly vulnerable'.”
And St. James gave an unexpected, short laugh. “Defiantly vulnerable,” he mused. “Yes. I should say that is what I would have expected from my Miss Murdock. No tears. Not then at any rate.” He turned from the fireplace. “Thank you, Effington. You may go now.”
“My pleasure, milord,” Effington said. “And may I add my congratulations, also, milord.”
St. James glanced at him but seemed far from pleased. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I suppose I should be congratulated,” and his voice was quietly derisive, “for I have man
aged to overcome her objections in the end, so I must be a very bright fellow, indeed.”
Effington gathered the coat to him and went with less than his normal dignity to the door, but he had not closed it entirely before the duke gave out a sudden, violent curse. St. James clinked decanter on glass as he refilled his drink.
He drank half of it in an instant, quelled his sudden impulse to slam the glass into the fireplace and instead take the entire bottle. He stood, the glass in his tight grip until at last he forced himself to go over and seat himself at his desk.
He took another few moments clearing his mind with a will, then turned his attention to the papers in front of him. He was further delayed once, when upon turning from the first letter that he had previously read to the next, he found in between these two sheaves of paper an envelope, the one that he had sent Effington to find the afternoon before. He opened it, skimmed it, laid it aside with a quiet wondering of how much grief could have been saved if he had only read it before going to Almacks that night.
Then he turned his attention to reading the haunting, half-remembered song of his father's handwriting, and it was not until another hour later that he at last turned the final page. Even then, he only got up to refresh his glass, and then sat again at his desk, his fingers caressing with gentleness the words his father had written nearly a quarter of a century ago as he stared pondering into the low burning flames of the fireplace.
Then he picked up a pen, dabbed it into a bottle of ink, and on a fresh piece of paper began to write:
Question: How close was Queen Victoria to heeding my father's advice? Tentative Conclusion: Very close. Ask Queen, if possible.
Question: What documents could he have been carrying with him the night he was killed that someone felt that they could not afford having the Queen receive? What information did my father know that it necessitated him to be forever silenced? Why my mother (and presumably myself) also? Tentative Conclusions: Documents contained (possibly) misrepresentations by the East India Company of the exact nature of the primary product they were trading from India to China—its uses—its addictive nature—the fact that it was mostly being consumed by the Chinese population as some drugging, numbing pleasure device (i.e. alcohol when used to extremes but apparently from my father's writings much worse) and not being used for any legitimate or legal purpose. Possibly this product was even minimalized in their accountings of their trade. It was illegal trade, after all, and they probably inflated profits from other legitimate trade to cover the opium profits. How many investors would have bulked if they had true knowledge of product and true nature of the illegality of the trading that was going on? If investors pulled out, would company have gone bankrupt? Did documents contain evidence of fraud?
My father wrote of other trade agreements being jeopardized, but although England stood to suffer if trade with China was lost, the East India Trading Company would have been ruined, along with all of its investors. Along with my own father if his holdings in company were significant.
Did my father have evidence of this fraud? Was it that evidence that was in the case the night of murders and was thus imperative that it not reach Queen Victoria, nor that my father remain alive to expose the extent of the Company's activities?
Or, if no outright evidence of fraud, did 'enemy' fear that my father would 'dump' his East India Company Holdings and that, combined with general unease over prewar situation, would cause a mass 'dumping' on the Exchange?
Need to investigate how much stock my father owned at the time. Was amount significant enough to change the market if he dumped?
Had he foreseen own murder? Did 'enemy' anticipate that he had left verbal instructions with my mother to dump stocks if he died unexpectedly, and worse, to publicly expose fraud? Could 'enemy' be sure this would not happen if she were left alive? Did 'enemy' have some indication that my father had confided in her? Letters? Messages? Overheard conversations?
Tentative Conclusion: Agent of East India Company, or Another large investor in said Company.
Fact: If someone involved with Company, they would almost certainly have to be in a social circle of my parents and have some insight into their relationship for them to believe my mother had intimate knowledge of my father's work (if, in fact, they feared my mother had knowledge). Unlikely an agent would be in that circle. Leaves only another large investor.
Note: As I, myself, doubt she had intimate knowledge, this could indicate that an extremely nervous 'enemy' were only guessing that they need kill her also, and all of this could be just so much rot.
St. James held the pen poised for another moment after that last sentence. So much rot. But if he were in fact puzzling through to a motive, then he could find no reason in it why his death would be desirable. And as his chest was aching, he knew very well that there had to be a motive for his death as well somewhere in this puzzle.
He rubbed a finger across his upper lip as he thought, his face a scowl of concentration (for it is not pleasant to try and figure out why someone is bent upon taking your life, and indeed, has already killed both of your parents) and his gold eyes were very dark in his pale face.
His inheritance had been held in trust for him by his uncle Mortimer, and he had not received it until he had reached his majority, and even then, that had been at his uncle's discretion. He would have had no decision making ability, even if, at the tender age of ten, he had been inclined to make a decision. Any worry that he would 'dump' East India Company stock was ridiculous. And if the 'enemy' mayhaps feared that his father had confided in his mother, they would not likely think that he had been irresponsible enough to also confide in his ten year old son.
Just maybe, the fact that he had not been in the coach that night had been insignificant. Perhaps, even the fact that his mother had been in the coach was insignificant. Perhaps, after all, his father had been the only target, and Dante had lived because he had an unexpected case of the croup, and his mother had died because she had been too bored to remain the few days until his grandmother had been returning to London.
But if this were true, why, again, the recent attempt on his life?
Why did it now matter to someone that he should die?
No. If it mattered now, it had to have mattered then also.
But if he had been an intended target those twenty-three years
ago, why had he been allowed to live undisturbed until now?
Nothing seemed to make sense, and he could not discount the fact that Miss Murdock's arrival on the scene seemed to be the defining factor that had induced someone to take action against him. To believe it were coincidental seemed to go contrary to what was quite obvious. For some unknown reason, he was not a threat as long as he were not married. Whether it was as Tyler had always claimed, and no one expected him to live to a ripe old age with his wild ways in any event, and now his sudden apparent interest indicated that he would settle down and perhaps live beyond what someone desired, or whether it were some other factor, he did not know.
He had acted on nothing but a hunch when he had orchestrated an interest in Miss Murdock, and his gut feeling told him that he had to dog that hunch to the end.
He started a new page.
My interest in Miss Murdock is disturbing to someone. Know from Steven's father that same assassins were hired, and confirmed again by Steven's mother, hence, logical they have been hired by same 'enemy' that hired them to kill father (parents?)
Why should my planned marriage be a threat?
Motive One:
Most logical, most oft thought and most oft discarded notion: matters of inheritance.
List of why this motive does not withstand scrutiny in the briefest, starkest terms: Only one standing to profit at time of my father's death (presuming I was meant to be in carriage and would also be killed): uncle Morty. Who is now dead, and hence could not be now reinstigating assassins to 'finish t'job' as Steven's mother so succinctly put it.
Only one standing to profit t
oday upon my death is Andrew, who was not even born upon night of my parents' deaths.
Motive of inheritance thus discarded.
Motive Two:
Investor in East India Company fearing ruination.
Now bent on murdering me because he is afraid that I am digging about in that nasty old graveyard and that he will be discovered. Question: Why not act sooner? Possible Reason One: I was able to move about with enough subtlety that he did not realize what I was truly up to. Or Possible Reason Two: He was aware of what I was doing, but I was not close enough to make him nervous and now I have in some indefinable way gotten closer. Or Possible Reason Three: He was aware that Queen was considering me for my father's vacant post, and was intimate enough with her to understand that if I should marry, she would take it as a sign that I had left my evil ways behind and was ready to accept the responsibility of that post. With taking of said post, information will be made available to me that will point to him.
If third possible reason: I was not meant to be in coach, my mother's murder was pure circumstance, and threat to my life now is only a result of what I may discover through my own investigating and promised access to Queen's files. If I had not appeared to take a notion to marrying, I would not have been a threat, for I would not have access to Crown records.
Conclusion: A member of the Queen's own inner circle.
He set down his pen and sat back in his chair. There was still a swallow of brandy left in his glass, and he finished it before murmuring to himself, “And I am fairly certain she suspects the same. She must think I am being exceedingly slow.” And he smiled. “But I am getting there, Your Highness, so I hope I am not disappointing you too mightily.”
The clock distracted him by striking the half hour, and he glanced at it and saw that it was half past four. He wondered how Miss Murdock was getting along. They should be nearly half way to her home. And despite his extreme tiredness, he had a sudden wish to do nothing else but saddle a horse and ride hard after her and run her down, and to go somewhere with her where there was none of this or any other but just the two of them.
In the Brief Eternal Silence Page 44