The soft creak of the floorboards overhead drew a fleeting smile to her lips. They seemed settled into their studies, and a shuffling across the corridor indicated McClellan had retired to her bedchamber. As for herself, Charlotte set her pen down, the act of sketching having helped to clarify her own thinking.
A complex conundrum often unknotted itself when one could find a thread to follow. And the more she pondered it, the more the murder at Queen’s Landing seemed tied in some way to why Cordelia and her brother had disappeared.
“I’m good at unraveling secrets,” she murmured, and as luck would have it, a tavernkeeper near the wharf was part of her extensive network of eyes and ears around London. “So perhaps it’s time to do a little nocturnal sleuthing around the docklands.”
A short while later, dressed in ragged male clothing and with her hair tucked up under a wide-brimmed slouched hat, Charlotte slipped out of the house and instinctively assumed the quick-footed lope of “Magpie,” her street persona. She hurried through the back byways that led down to the river, carefully avoiding the rougher streets, where trouble often spilled out from the ramshackle gin houses pressed cheek by jowl among the rookeries.
On approaching the East India Company docks, Charlotte cut around to the rear of a small tavern that catered to the workers at the wharves and warehouses. A special knock, thumped on a side door, quickly drew a response.
“Oiy, ain’t seen ye in a while, Magpie.” The door cracked open, just enough for Charlotte to sidle inside a small room that was bare, save for two slat-back chairs and a small round table. “But I wondered whether the murder would bring ye flying.”
“What do you know about it?” she asked, keeping her face hidden despite the fuzzed light.
“What’ll ye pay for it?” countered the tavern owner, a portly fellow with dark hair greased back from a bulbous forehead. His breath reeked of fish and stale beer.
“Don’t humbug me, Squid. You know I’m generous when it comes to accurate information. But feed me a farididdle and we won’t be doing business together in the future.”
“Oiy, it’s true. Ye’s always fair.” Squid hitched up his canvas pants. “Wot’s ye looking fer?”
“Did the murdered man meet regularly with anyone around here?” asked Charlotte.
Squid scratched at his unshaven chin. “He thought hisself high above our touch, but I happen te know he often had a chin-wag with a gentry cove over at Stubb’s fancy Lantern.”
Charlotte knew the place. The Ship’s Lantern was a slightly more genteel tavern that catered to ship captains and merchants who traveled on the East India Company vessels.
“Do you know the name of the gentry cove?”
Squid leaned in closer. His fetid breath blew under the brim of her hat and tickled against her cheek. “Mather.”
She kept herself from recoiling. “And does Mr. Mather have a Christian name?”
The tavernkeeper hesitated. Wondering, no doubt, whether he could squeeze a few extra pennies by playing it coy.
Charlotte took a few side steps and dropped a small purse on the table.
Squid cocked an ear. She imagined he could gauge the amount inside right down to the farthing just by the chink of the metal. It was a generous sum.
His smile revealed several missing teeth. “David. And he be the Honorable David Mather.”
So, not just gentry, but a member of the aristocracy.
“That ain’t all, Magpie. Word is, he works at a bank.”
A bank. Her pulse kicked up a notch. “Which one?”
“Lemme think.” The tavernkeeper rubbed at his jaw, anxious to keep any extra coins from slipping through his fingers. A moment later, he let out a guttural laugh. “Oiy—I remember it now! Whore’s Bank.” His jowls were now quivering with mirth. “Ye think they keep cunnies locked up in their vault?”
“No,” she answered. “Too many places for a whore to hide away a handful of guineas.”
Squid was now laughing so hard it brought tears to his eyes. Charlotte was smiling, as well. The clue was worth its weight in gold. C. Hoare & Co. was an old and respected private banking establishment, whose clients included Lord Byron and Eton College.
“My thanks. You’ve been a great help.” She made a show of turning for the door. “Oh, one last thing.” Charlotte slid her hand back into her pocket. “Is there anyone else I should know about?”
“Well, now that ye mention it, the murdered man was thick as thieves with a barmaid at the Lantern. A pretty blonde.” He pantomimed a pair of buxom breasts. “I imagine that be valuable information. Bow Street don’t know it, as Annie begged the others to keep mum about it. She must have a reason fer not wanting te draw the attention of the Runners. Anyone wid harf an eye can see she’s got something te hide.”
Charlotte withdrew another coin but kept her hand fisted. “Annie’s full name?”
Squid licked his lips. “Annie Wright.”
“What’s she hiding?”
“Dunno,” he muttered, shooting a greedy look at her fist. “But you’re a clever cully, Magpie, and are good at uncovering all the little secrets that people wish te keep hidden.”
Satisfied that she had gotten all she could out of him, she tossed a guinea down beside the purse, setting off a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, and then shoved back the massive deadbolt on the inside of the door to let herself out.
“Always a pleasure doing business with ye, Magpie,” he called softly as the age-black oak closed behind her with a thunk.
Yes, she had paid through the nose, but Charlotte felt she had gotten the best of the bargain. She now had two names.
Ones that only deepened the mystery surrounding the murder.
* * *
Raven let out a soft cry of a nightingale, then went very still. A moment later came the warble of a dove.
“Nobody’s coming. Let’s go,” he murmured, rising from his crouch among the bushes rimming the back terrace of Woodbridge’s townhouse and creeping toward the side window.
Sheffield followed, trying to mimic the boy’s fluid stealth. “How—”
“Ssshhh,” warned Raven as he pulled a knife from his boot and slid the blade between the iron-framed sashes. Hawk rejoined them an instant later.
“What’s he doing?” whispered Sheffield.
“Feeling for the latch,” answered Hawk. “Once you position the point of the knife just so, you can force it to release.”
“How do you two know—”
“Ssshh!”
A breeze ruffled through the ivy framing the mullioned panes of glass. The twittering of a nightingale—a real one—floated out from the dark branches of a chestnut tree by the garden wall.
And then a tiny metallic snick.
Raven tucked the knife back in his boot and slowly eased one of the window sashes open a crack. “Hawk, you go first and make sure there’s nobody around.”
His brother slithered up and in without a sound. Several moments later, he peeked up from the gloom, just long enough to give a quick nod.
“Now you, sir.” Raven laced his hands together.
Sheffield hesitated, earning a muttered “Quickly!” Gingerly positioning his foot for a boost, he braced his palms on the sill, only to be catapulted up and into the slivered opening. His shoes scrabbled against the mortised stone, then Hawk seized his coat collar and hauled him inside.
Raven followed in a flash. After pulling the window shut, he dropped down to the carpet beside the others.
“Try to make a little less noise, sir,” he counseled. “I really don’t fancy being transported to the Antipodes for burglary.”
“We’re not planning on stealing anything,” pointed out Sheffield.
The boys ignored the protest. It appeared they were in a small parlor, and after a glance around, Raven gestured to the door leading out to the corridor. “Follow me. We need to find Lord Woodbridge’s study. And do try to stay light on your feet, Mr. Sheffield.”
They crept along
in single file, with Hawk bringing up the rear. After several halts for Raven to dart ahead and make a quick reconnaissance, they made their way to a wood-paneled room at the rear of the townhouse, a room redolent with the masculine scents of leather and cigar smoke.
Sheffield reached for a candle and struck a spark to the wick.
Hawk scrambled over to blow out the flame. “Not yet!” he whispered. “We need to draw the draperies first.”
“Oh, er, right.”
“You’re not very good at this,” observed Raven. “It’s lucky we came with you.”
“Pay attention, and we’ll teach you how to keep your arse out of Newgate,” chimed in Hawk.
“Dare I ask how you two Weasels acquired your expertise?”
The boys exchanged sniggered laughs.
“You learn to be quick and nimble when you grow up on the street,” explained Raven as he moved to the large oak desk and began testing the drawers. “Otherwise you don’t survive—”
He gave a grunt when the bottom drawer didn’t budge, and pulled a needle-thin steel probe from his pocket. It made quick work of the lock.
“Now you can light the candle, sir, and do a search of the papers here while we take a look around the rest of the room.” After flint struck steel, Raven moved over to light a second candle from Sheffield’s flame. “Try not to make too much of a mess.”
“I think I can manage that,” said Sheffield dryly.
“You know what you’re looking for?” asked Hawk.
“I may be a bit bumbling on my feet, but yes, I’ll know what’s important when I see it. You two keep an eye out for any other papers or financial documents. But most importantly, look for any clue of where Woodbridge and Lady Cordelia might have gone. A letter, a guidebook, a map—”
“Right. Now let’s get to work,” urged Raven. “One of the keys to illegal entry, sir, is to be in and out as quickly as possible.”
The three of them fell to their appointed tasks, working swiftly and silently in the dim light. Sheffield made a few low sounds in his throat as he sorted through some papers and shoved several sheets into his pocket. He shifted and was just reaching into the very back of the drawer when Raven froze and waved a frantic signal to blow out the candles and be still.
Steps. The sound was almost imperceptible. But someone was moving stealthily down the corridor. Raven darted a look at the curtained window, then shook his head at Hawk, indicating it was too late to flee. Instead, he grabbed up a heavy brass candlestick from the sideboard and rushed to take up a position atop the side table by the door.
Hawk signaled Sheffield to join him behind the sofa. “Be ready to run,” he whispered just as the door latch rattled.
There was a moment of silence, and then the catch released.
Raven raised the candlestick and held his breath.
With a faint creak, the door slowly swung open. The shadows stirred as a tall, black-clad figure moved cautiously into the study.
Another half step would give Raven the perfect angle to strike.
The figure appeared to hesitate, then slid a booted foot forward....
* * *
Charlotte followed the oily beacon of light across the cobbles and entered the smoke-swirled taproom of the Ship’s Lantern. After squeezing through the crowd of sailors clustered by the barkeeper’s counter, she found a stool in a shadowed nook and settled in to observe the activity around her.
The place was only moderately full—the tide was going out, so no ships would be arriving until well past sunrise. A handful of junior officers wearing the uniform of the East India Company were scattered around the tables near the hearth, while a group of Royal Marines were getting drunk on brandy in the center of the room. In an alcove at the rear of the establishment, stevedores were waging a game of darts, the low light from the wall sconces flickering over their sweat-sheened muscles. Judging by the snarls and mutters, the stakes were high.
Charlotte had no trouble picking out Annie Wright, at work clearing tables. Squid’s description, while crass, was accurate. However, she made no attempt to attract the buxom blonde’s attention. She was looking for a more roundabout route to her quarry.
A few minutes later, a lone man entered, earning a friendly nod from the dark-haired barmaid serving the tables near the door.
A regular, decided Charlotte. She studied him more carefully as he made his way toward one of the empty tables near her. A coat of decent quality but fraying around the edges . . . linen going grey with age . . . boots that had seen better days . . . A respectable fellow, but just barely—and slowly sliding into oblivion. The sort who could be made to feel important.
A quick wave drew the dark-haired barmaid. “A tankard of ale,” said Charlotte, assuming the accent of the rookeries around the naval yards in Greenwich. “And one for ’im, too, as I don’t wish to drink alone,” she added, gesturing for the newcomer to join her.
“Much obliged,” murmured the man. As Charlotte had suspected, he wasn’t about to turn up his nose at the chance to keep his purse in his pocket. “You’re not from around here,” he remarked as he took a seat.
“From farther east along the river,” replied Charlotte. “Did a job fer a friend over on the loading docks.” She took a slurp of ale. “He warned me it was a dangerous place, but it don’t seem so bad.”
A grunt sounded in answer. Lifting his tankard to his lips, the man drained half of it in one prolonged swallow.
She scraped her stool closer to the table. “I heard talk that there was a murder on Queen’s Landing just a few days ago, but I’ll wager that’s just argle-bargle.”
“It’s not,” said the man, leaning in a little. He had a long, thin face, with sallow skin that reminded her of a cod’s underbelly. His eyes were equally colorless, but they had an alertness that boded well for her purposes. “There was a murder.”
“You’re bamming me,” she said with a note of skepticism. Men liked to gossip just as much as women. And knowing something that others didn’t made a fellow feel important.
“I’m not. The fellow’s throat was cut from ear to ear.” Thin Face smiled in satisfaction as she recoiled in shock. “I knew him. He came here often.”
“You don’t say!”
“Aye.” Shaking his head, he took another long swallow of ale. “A dirty business,” he said softly.
Charlotte signaled for another round of drinks. “What do you mean?”
His expression turned sly. “You would have to ask that Miss Nose in the Air over there.” He jerked his head in the direction of Annie Wright. “She was thick as thieves with the dead man and yet was desperate to avoid talking to Bow Street about him.” A nasty smile. “I can’t help but wonder why.”
“Why do you think?” she prompted once Thin Face had a fresh tankard of ale in his hands.
He savored a long swallow, prolonging the moment of being the center of attention. “She’s hiding something, of course.” After another swallow, he tapped at the side of his nose. “I know a rat when I smell it. And whatever it is, it just might get her killed, too.”
* * *
As the intruder edged into range, Raven swung down hard with the brass candlestick, aiming a blow meant to stun. The air rippled—
But at the last instant, the figure spun around and with a careless flick of his hand caught the makeshift weapon hurtling at his head.
“Hell’s teeth, I ought to birch your arse, Weasel,” said Wrexford as he snagged the boy by his collar with his other hand and hauled him down from his perch.
“Don’t ring a peal over the boys,” said Sheffield, rising from his hiding place. “It’s my fault—”
“Ssshhh,” hushed Hawk. “You’ve got to keep your voice down when you’re doing something illegal.”
“Non omne licitum honestum,” retorted Raven.
“True. Not every lawful thing is honorable,” said Wrexford. He cocked an ear to listen for any sign of movement in the rest of the house. Satisfied that their presen
ce was still undetected, he marched Raven over to where the others were standing. “However, we’ll discuss the morality of this little foray later. For now . . .”
He glanced at the desk and its still-open drawers. “Have you found anything useful?”
“A packet of financial papers hidden beneath a sheaf of bills from Woodbridge’s wine merchant—which I’ve pocketed,” answered Sheffield. “There’s still another drawer to examine.”
Wrexford pursed his lips. “Any incriminating evidence is likely tucked away in a less obvious hiding place.” He took a moment to relight the candle on the desk. “A globe, a fancy curio . . .” His gaze returned to Raven. “Any sign of a safe?”
“I haven’t finished checking the room, sir. But I noticed there’s several blank spots on the walls where paintings recently hung.”
“Woodbridge may be discreetly selling off some valuables,” mused the earl. “We also must check Lady Cordelia’s workroom for clues as to what’s happened to her and her brother.” A pause. “It’s come to my attention that she’s involved in some business interests that may have bearing on what dark mischief is afoot.”
The weak light caught the flush of color rising to Sheffield’s face. “Whatever you’ve heard . . . it’s not what you think—”
“I have no idea what to think at this moment,” snapped the earl. “But now isn’t the time to discuss it. As the Weasels so sagely pointed out, we need search the place as quickly as possible and take our leave—preferably not in manacles.”
“Lady Cordelia wouldn’t do anything wrong—” began Raven.
“As a man of science, I come to my conclusions based on empirical evidence, not wishful thinking.” He turned away. “Now let’s get to work.”
Woodbridge’s study yielded no further clues, and the four of them quickly moved up the stairs to Lady Cordelia’s workroom. On opening the door and seeing all the books and papers stacked atop the storage cabinets, Wrexford made a face.
“Well, at least there appeared to be some order to her arrangements.”
Raven examined the nearest piles. “Most of it involves work on specific mathematical theorems,” he explained.
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