Murder at Queen's Landing

by Andrea Penrose

  “Oiy!” said Hawk in a tone of awe as his gaze angled heavenward. “It’s bigger than St. James’s Palace.”

  Raven turned in a slow circle, sniffing the air. “It smells different here. And it’s quiet as a crypt.”

  “The country is very different from the city in a great many ways,” said Sheffield as he hurried down the front steps of the manor house to join them.

  “We saw miles and miles of fields!” exclaimed Hawk. “And hills and hedgerows and—”

  “Let us get settled inside, sweeting,” murmured Charlotte, touching his shoulder. “And then we can recount all the wondrous things we saw on the journey.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” said Wrexford, handing Alison her cane and then offering his arm.

  Sheffield quickly made his greetings to everyone and came around to escort Charlotte.

  “There’s a warming fire lit in one of the side salons,” added the earl. “Tea and a cold collation will be served as soon as we’re seated.” He led the way through a cavernous entrance hall—its age-dark paneled walls bristled with hunting tapestries, racks of antlers, and a bloodthirsty array of ancient weaponry—and turned down a side corridor, where a door stood half-open.

  “The parlor is a bit cozier than the formal drawing room,” he explained, guiding the dowager to the sofa set close to the blazing hearth. “Weasels!” he called as Alison seated herself on the plump pillows.

  The boys had lingered in the entrance hall. No doubt ogling the swords and other implements of war, thought Charlotte. And deciding the best way to scale the walls.

  Sure enough, the first words out of Raven’s mouth were about the weaponry. “Will you show us how to shoot the crossbows?”

  “That depends on whether you behave like little gentlemen or little savages,” replied the earl.

  Raven gave a rude snicker. “Behaving like little gentlemen is cursedly boring.”

  Wrexford shrugged. “The choice is yours.” He let the statement hang between them for an instant before adding, “But be forewarned that any unauthorized high jinks with the weapons will have consequences. And don’t imagine that I won’t notice a minute shift in their position.”

  The boys exchanged a quick look.

  “There are puppies in the stables,” murmured the earl. “And ponies.”

  Hawk’s eyes widened in alarm. “P-perhaps it would do no harm to practice being little gentlemen, at least for the next few days.”

  “A splendid idea,” remarked Charlotte as two maids entered the parlor bearing a tea tray and a large platter heaped with food.

  “Thank you,” said the earl, indicating that the refreshments should be placed on the low table between the sofa and armchairs.

  As he turned to the sideboard, Charlotte took a moment to survey the room. Like the earl, it had an understated elegance highlighted by subtle touches of individuality. A juxtaposition of tradition and whimsy.

  And the art on the walls was marvelous.

  “Is this by Thomas Girtin?” she asked, moving to look more closely at an exquisite watercolor of an abbey ruin. “The light is ethereal.”

  “Yes.” Wrexford came to stand beside her. “A prodigious talent. It’s a pity he died at such a young age.”

  “Anthony was a great admirer of his work.” She didn’t add that her late husband had always voiced the sentiment with an undertone of resentment, as if the gods had somehow bestowed their gifts unfairly.

  The earl offered her a brandy, and Charlotte found herself grateful for the heat of the spirits as she took a sip. She hadn’t realized how chilled she was.

  Sheffield carried a glass to the dowager, along with one for himself.

  “Ah, that warms the cockles,” murmured the dowager after a small swallow. She took another and then set it aside. “Hmmph. Now that we are all here, I imagine we’re going to have a council of war.” She eyed the boys. “Er, perhaps—”

  Raven stiffened and lifted his chin. “We don’t need protecting, Aunt Alison. Lady Cordelia is our friend, and we’re already up to our necks in the investigation.”

  “It’s true,” conceded Charlotte with an apologetic shrug. “I did warn you that the Weasels aren’t ordinary children.”

  “So I am learning,” murmured Alison with a tiny smile. “Well, then, let us get on with it.”

  “Yes,” agreed Wrexford, “but I suggest we don’t do it on an empty stomach.”

  “We can both eat and talk,” said Charlotte, impatient to hear any further discoveries. The earl and Sheffield had arrived several hours earlier. “Everyone please take a seat.”

  She waited for the settling-in to cease. “I shall fix some plates and pass them around while you tell us what you’ve learned. Has Tyler had a look at the professor’s—”

  “Tyler has been delayed in London,” interrupted the earl. “I expect him to arrive sometime tomorrow. However, Sheffield and I rode out earlier today and did a quick reconnaissance of Professor Sudler’s hideaway. It’s nestled in a secluded spot, ringed by fallow fields and a glade of trees. There are several outbuildings abutting the main cottage, and the enclave is ringed by a high stone wall.”

  “The perfect place for someone wishing absolute privacy,” observed Sheffield tightly. He looked down into his drink. “Whatever the reason.”

  He had been, noted Charlotte, uncharacteristically quiet since their arrival. Soft as the candlelight was, it illuminated the fine lines of worry—or was it fear?—etched at the corners of his eyes.

  She wished to say something encouraging but couldn’t muster any reply that didn’t sound patronizing. The truth was, the evidence indicated that some very painful discoveries lay ahead.

  And they all knew it.

  Wrexford waited for Charlotte to be seated before breaking the uncomfortable silence. “My suggestion is that the three of us ride out very early in the morning. In my experience, a confrontation that comes when it’s least expected gives the advantage to the interrogators.”

  Sheffield let out an unhappy sigh but merely nodded.

  The earl looked to Charlotte. “I assume that you know how to handle a horse?”

  “It’s been some time since I’ve had my feet in the stirrups,” she replied. “However, I’ll manage.”

  “Pffft, you have nothing to fear, milord,” announced the dowager. “Charley was a neck-and-leather rider in her youth.”

  Both boys looked up from their tarts.

  “Will you teach us?” asked Hawk.

  “M’lady will be busy with other concerns,” called a voice from the corridor. McClellan appeared in the doorway a moment later. “If you behave, I’ll show you the rudiments.” She nodded a greeting to the others. “We’ve just arrived with the baggage. I’ve shown Lady Peake’s maid to her room, and the footmen are bringing the trunks upstairs.”

  “Thank you, Mac,” drawled the earl. “McClellan knows the estate and its workings better than I do, so if you have any questions, ask her.”

  “Come with me, Weasels,” said McClellan, eyeing their empty plates and jam-smeared faces. “Let us leave your elders to finish their libations in peace. I’ll show you to your quarters. And mind you, Polly, the upstairs maid, may look young, but she’s under strict orders to brook no nonsense from the two of you. Disobey her at your peril.”

  “Puppies and ponies,” murmured Charlotte.

  Raven and Hawk rose without protest and hurried off.

  Wrexford got up to pour himself another brandy. Sheffield waved off a refill and went to stand by the fire and warm his hands over the flames.

  Sympathy tightened Charlotte’s throat as she stared at Sheffield’s back, noting the rigid set of his shoulders. She knew all too well the pain of discovering that someone for whom you cared deeply had feet of clay.

  Her own late husband . . .

  “Actually, unless there is anything else pressing to discuss, I suggest we all retire,” said Wrexford. He, too, was watching his friend. “It’s been a long day of travel, an
d we need to rise at dawn.”

  * * *

  Mist swirled, casting a silvery sheen over the meadows beyond the stable paddocks. Wrexford handed the reins of his stallion to one of the grooms and crossed to where Charlotte was standing, awaiting the placid mare he had ordered saddled for her.

  “Nervous?” he asked.

  “Not about climbing atop a horse,” she answered. Her gaze strayed to Sheffield, who had already mounted his dappled grey gelding, and she let out a tiny sigh. “Hearts are fragile things.”

  “But unlike fine porcelain, they can be mended well enough that the cracks don’t show.”

  “That may be true,” she replied. “And yet, in some cases, the damage is lasting.”

  Her words implied that Sheffield’s devil-may-care demeanor hid a vulnerable soul. Wrexford wished he could sneer at the notion, but he knew his friend too well to make light of it.

  “If Kit is shattered by what lies ahead, we must hope that our friendship and support will help him put the pieces back together again.”

  Charlotte touched his arm, and suddenly the morning’s damp chill seemed to evaporate. “You’re right, Wrexford. Love and friendship can work miracles.”

  His lips twitched. “As a man of science, I don’t believe in miracles.”

  “And yet, as a man of science,” she countered, “you must concede that there are forces of Nature you can’t rationally explain.”

  “Granted, life is full of ticklish conundrums.” A groom brought over the mare. Lacing his hands together, Wrexford offered her a boost into the saddle. “Let us hope we can solve at least one of them this morning.”

  Dawn’s light was just touching the horizon as they rode out in silence, the earl leading the way through the sloping meadows to a country lane. After glancing back and seeing that Charlotte looked at ease in the saddle, Wrexford spurred to an easy canter. The rhythmic thud of the hooves grew louder as the way wound through a swath of woodland. Shadows hung heavy in the leaves, mirroring the group’s somber mood.

  As a flicker of pale sunlight shone up ahead and the trees began to thin, the earl reined to halt.

  “The cottage is close,” he said to Charlotte once she and Sheffield had come abreast of him. “We’ll dismount once we reach the hedgerow up ahead, and go on foot.”

  She nodded.

  The gloom had brightened just enough to show that Sheffield’s visage was pale as death.

  “Kit,” said Wrexford softly. “If you would prefer to wait—”

  “No.” Sheffield tightened his grip on his reins. “I’m not such a craven coward that I can’t summon the backbone to have Lady Cordelia tell me to my face of her betrayal.”

  The earl released a silent sigh and spurred forward.

  They dismounted, careful to keep their movements as quiet as possible, and then, once again, Wrexford took the lead. After squeezing through the narrow opening in the hedge, he led the way around a high ivy-covered wall. A wrought-iron gate guarded the opening facing the cart track. It wasn’t locked. A soft snick allowed them to enter the inner yard.

  The cottage windows were curtained, and no smoke rose from the chimney. The earl moved to the front door, hoping Sheffield didn’t notice the weight of the pistol concealed in his coat pocket. He didn’t expect trouble. But then again, desperate men were prone to doing desperate things, and despite the dowager’s assessment, Woodbridge didn’t strike him as the steadiest of fellows.

  Wrexford tested the latch. It didn’t budge, but it quickly yielded to the steel probe he had brought along. He motioned for the others to follow. What little light came in through the drawn draperies showed a small entrance foyer that opened into a center corridor. Ahead were stairs leading up to the second floor. He paused and then turned into the main parlor. Ashes lay in the hearth. Several empty glasses sat on the tea table.

  “I’ll have a look in the kitchen,” whispered Charlotte.

  The earl signaled her to go, then motioned for Sheffield to follow him through the door into what looked like the professor’s study. Bookcases lined the walls, all crammed with leather-bound volumes and stacks of manuscript pages bound with twine. The desk was also covered with books and documents. As Wrexford approached it, he saw a pen on the blotter, its nib dark with dried ink.

  He looked up and cocked an ear. No sounds from above. The inhabitants were either all asleep. Or . . .

  He felt a tingle at the back of his neck. “You check the other rooms down here,” he murmured to Sheffield. “I’m going to head upstairs.”

  His friend looked on the verge of protest, but after a tiny hesitation, he gave a grim nod and backtracked from the study to cross the corridor.

  Slipping a hand into his pocket, Wrexford climbed the stairs, treading as softly as he could. There looked to be four chambers set along the narrow corridor, with two on each side. All the doors were shut, the age-dark oak looking black as Hades in the dim light. Holding his breath, he approached the nearest one and eased it open.

  Empty.

  Wrexford edged over to the next room. The hinges creaked as the door gave way to a light push. It, too, was empty, though the bedcovering looked a little rumpled, and a lady’s lace fichu lay half-hidden behind the dressing table. Moving on, he found the other two rooms deserted, as well.

  He hurried back down the stairs and met Charlotte, who had just left the kitchen.

  “There’s food in the larder, and dirty dishes on the worktable,” she confided in a low voice. “Someone has been here recently, but—”

  “But they’ve fled,” he finished. “And God only knows where they’ve gone.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Charlotte turned as Sheffield came out of a side parlor, a wine-colored silk hair ribbon twined in his fingers.

  “Lady Cordelia has been here.” He held up the ribbon, its curling tail fluttering in the drafty gloom. “She’s extremely fond of this particular shade of burgundy.”

  “It’s not an uncommon color,” pointed out Charlotte. “We mustn’t jump to conclusions—”

  “It has her scent,” said Sheffield flatly. He looked down at his hands, the slight movement wreathing his face in shadow.

  “There’s other evidence that she and the others have been here recently,” interjected the earl. “And it appears that they left in a hurry.”

  “I didn’t warn them, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not, Kit,” replied Wrexford. “I trust that you would have told me if you had.”

  Their friend released a pent-up breath. “Thank you for that. I know I’ve been a fool—”

  “There’s nothing foolish about friendship and loyalty,” cut in Charlotte. “And until we find out what’s going on, let us try not to assume the worst.”

  “The worst?” A mirthless snort. “What other possible explanation can there be?”

  Her throat constricted. She wouldn’t insult him with fairie tales.

  “As I’ve said before, idle speculation is useless,” announced Wrexford. “Let’s take a closer look at Professor Sudler’s study and then search the outbuildings to see if there’s any tangible clue as to what they’re up to.” He turned on his heel. “Or where they might have gone.”

  Ever logical, thought Charlotte. Thank heavens. They mustn’t allow Sheffield to fall into a chasm of blue-deviled brooding.

  Sudler’s desk yielded nothing but academic correspondence and page after page of incomprehensible formulas peppered with cryptic notes.

  “The man is either a genius,” muttered Sheffield as he thumbed through a notebook, “or stark raving mad.”

  “Sometimes the line between the two is razor thin,” observed the earl. He slammed a drawer shut. “I think we’ve seen enough here. Perhaps we’ll have better luck outside.”

  They made quick work of a shed, which held only a jumble of garden tools and broken terra-cotta pots, then moved on to the small stable. The three stalls and the tiny hayloft also told them naught but that a horse and cart had b
een housed there recently. The largest of the three structures, however, held a hint of promise. Its heavy iron-banded door was fastened with a massive padlock.

  “Damnation,” said Sheffield. “That’s one of those newfangled German puzzle locks. I doubt you—”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” murmured Wrexford as he once again pulled the steel probe from his boot. “Tyler and I . . .” Click-click. “Were rather curious as to how these mechanisms worked . . .” Click-click. “So we did a bit of study on the principles . . .” Click-click. “And disassembled several models in order to examine—”

  The lock’s shank released with a well-oiled snick.

  “Ah, excellent.” The earl allowed a grim smile. “Tyler will be delighted to hear that our surmise about the levers working the same way on all models is correct.”

  “You really must show me how to do that,” said Charlotte.

  “Ha! You find a way to winkle out enough secrets as it is,” said Wrexford dryly. Taking up the lantern he had brought from the stable, he quickly struck a spark to the wick and beckoned them to follow him inside.

  The still air had an oddly metallic chill to it, thought Charlotte as she stepped into the darkness. The windows were all tightly shuttered, which seemed to amplify the echo of their steps on the stone floor.

  “Have a care,” cautioned the earl as he felt his way forward. “There appears to be some rather large machinery in here.”

  She came to a halt on hearing him rustle around. A moment later, one of the shutters came open, revealing . . .

  “Merciful heavens.” Charlotte sucked in her breath.

  Sheffield, too, was looking around the long and narrow room in wonder as Wrexford pried open several more of the window covers. “It looks like something out of Greek mythology. You know, the workshop of that fellow who served as blacksmith to the immortals of Olympus.”

  “Hephaestus,” said the earl. “The god of fire and metalworking.” He picked up a hammer from one of the work counters and tapped it against his palm. An array of intricate machinery made of iron, steel, and brass—lathes, drill presses, and fanciful assemblies that Charlotte couldn’t begin to name—stretched down the entire length of the building. On the opposite wall hung a phalanx of hand tools and shelves above a work counter.