Murder at Queen's Landing

by Andrea Penrose

  “Whatever did they do then?” Sheffield asked.

  “To make a long story short, they got out of the tea business, trading only enough to appear to be a legitimate trading operation,” said Cordelia. “Instead, they concentrated on accumulating their silver.”

  “I think I can see where this is going,” Wrexford interjected. “Because the silver was traded in the black market for opium, and because of the emperor’s demands for payment in silver, the conspirators were accumulating silver at a much cheaper price than existed in the European markets.”

  “Yes, exactly, milord,” Cordelia responded. “The dastards came to realize that the true potential source of profit was their ability to get cheap silver in China, since it had a much greater value in Europe.”

  Alison squinted in confusion. “So they began to trade in silver?”

  “Well, for a time, yes,” Cordelia responded. “But once again, the laws of market economics took over. They originally tried to have their partners—the supercargoes—bring the silver back to London to resell it at the higher price. But that, too, posed problems. The price of silver in Europe can be volatile, and this was a concern given the time it took to transport it back from China. In one of their earliest efforts, by the time they got the silver back to Europe, the price had dropped. That, plus all the bribes they had to pay to customs officials and co-conspirators within the Company for camouflaging the payments through East India Company accounts, meant they actually lost money on their trading.”

  “Shouldn’t that have put an end to their machinations?” asked Alison.

  Cordelia shook her head. “Alas, no. They are, as I said, very astute financially. They began to solve this last set of problems with bills of exchange.”

  “Bills of what?” exclaimed Alison. “Forgive me . . . but I thought they were exchanging opium and tea and silver.”

  “Bills of exchange have long been a common practice in the world of commerce,” explained Cordelia, “They began in the Middle Ages, and are now becoming even more prevalent as trade expands around the globe.”

  “Ah! I’ve been studying these instruments, too!” Sheffield’s face lit up. “They take a variety of forms. But I would think that what they did here was pay the opium suppliers in India with a bill of exchange, rather than cash in the form of either British pounds or the local Indian currency. Because of their international operations, the supercargoes had agents in most major cities along the trade routes. I won’t go into the habble-babble about how the pieces of paper travel around the world and get converted back into actual currency by the billholders, but the system works.”

  “An excellent summary,” said Cordelia approvingly. “There are a few other details, because of the various currencies involved and a few other technical aspects, but your description is bang on the mark.”

  Sheffield flashed a smile, but then his expression turned perplexed. “There’s still one basic element that puzzles me. Didn’t the supercargoes then have the same problem of bringing the silver back to Europe, with the same risks of fluctuations in the price of silver and of detection? After all, the conspirators still had to sell the silver in Europe to pay off the bills of exchange they had issued to their Indian suppliers.”

  “You’re right, Mr. Sheffield. I’m just about to get to that part,” said Cordelia.

  * * *

  “Perhaps we should order more tea before you begin,” suggested Alison. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, Cordelia’s words seemed to have caused a chill to settle over the room.

  Feeling her head begin to throb, Charlotte pressed her fingertips to her temples. The case had unsettled her from the start, and she had a sense it was about to take an even darker turn.

  The previous year she had done several satirical drawings that focused on a certain incident involving the East India Company. Her usual informants had been too terrified to talk to her, and though she had managed to cobble together enough facts to make a commentary, she had come away with the sense that the Company was utterly ruthless in protecting its reputation.

  “I think we could all do with some sustenance,” agreed Charlotte. She rose and moved to the diamond-paned windows while the parlormaid was summoned, hoping the sunlight slanting through the glass might warm the dread from her bones.

  “Do you believe her?” murmured the earl as he came to stand beside her.

  “I want to,” she admitted. “But like you, I shall try to keep a healthy skepticism until I hear the whole story. As of yet, we’ve heard nothing about Professor Sudler’s workshop, and I find it hard to imagine that those intricate gears and levers aren’t in some way connected to . . .” A sigh. “To whatever evil Lady Cordelia is about to reveal.”

  “I confess to a morbid curiosity as to what that connection is,” responded Wrexford. “On a purely intellectual plane, the scientific innovations of Sudler’s mechanical device appear to hold revolutionary possibilities.”

  “Yes, but as we’ve seen in our previous cases, science is not a beautiful abstraction. Theories in themselves aren’t good or evil. It’s we who twist them to do our bidding.”

  He looked at her in concern. “You’re usually not so pessimistic.”

  “I’ve become well enough acquainted with Lady Cordelia to know she doesn’t frighten easily.” Charlotte closed her eyes for an instant. “She’s rattled, and I have to assume there’s a good reason for it.”

  Clasping his hands behind his back, Wrexford turned to stare out over the back gardens and sloping lawns. A breeze ruffled the ivy twined around the windows, setting the dark leaves to whispering against the panes.

  The sound drew her from her brooding, and she found herself gazing out at the pastoral scene.

  “Hell and damnation,” muttered Wrexford.

  Charlotte suddenly saw it, too—a hulking grey shape stalking within the small glade of trees skirting the walled rose garden. “Good Lord, is that a wolf?”

  “No.” A pause. “It’s Harper.”

  Harper appeared to be the size of a small pony. . . .

  A flurry of fierce barks rumbled through the glass. “He’s a Scottish deerhound,” added the earl.

  A gasp slipped from her lips as she spotted Raven and Hawk moving through the shadows close to the beast. “Is Harper dangerous?”

  “Not usually,” answered the earl. He hurriedly unlatched the window and let out a piercing whistle.

  Harper pricked up his ears and then turned and came loping across the lawn. On reaching the window, he leaped up and planted his huge paws on the stone sill.

  “Hallo,” murmured Wrexford, curling his fingers in the hound’s shaggy ruff and giving a vigorous rub.

  With his lolling pink tongue and wagging tail, the animal didn’t look quite so fearsome up close, decided Charlotte.

  “He’s quite good natured,” explained the earl, “save for when he feels the estate is being threatened.”

  “What possible threat . . .” The words died in her throat as she saw the boys break free of the trees.

  Hawk was brandishing an Elizabethan small sword, while Raven was cradling a medieval crossbow. And between them was the Earl of Woodbridge, his hands bound in front of him with a rather soggy-looking rope.

  Cordelia must have spotted her brother from one of the side windows, because she rushed to join them. Elbowing Wrexford aside, she leaned out the window. “Raven! Dash it all, untie your prisoner this instant!”

  As the dowager and Sheffield joined the commotion, Cordelia expelled an oath. “Damnation! Jamie was supposed to stay with the professor and his Engine.”

  “Well, well,” observed Alison with an owlish blink. “The plot thickens.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Everyone quickly resettled in their seats as Wrexford poured a glass of brandy and thrust it into Woodbridge’s hands.

  “And now, Weasels,” he intoned, turning to fix the boys with a gimlet gaze. “Kindly explain yourselves.”

  “We saw someone skulking in the
trees,” replied Raven, refusing to be intimidated. “And as we didn’t know who it was, we decided it was better to be safe than sorry.” He lifted his chin. “There’s already been one murder. Hawk and I wanted to ensure there wouldn’t be another.”

  The earl repressed a twitch of his lips. The little imps had cleverly seized the opportunity to handle the ancient weapons. But it was impossible to be angry, for he knew they would fight with tooth and nail if need be to protect Charlotte from harm.

  “Trouble might be lurking anywhere,” added Hawk. “We can’t afford to let our guard down.”

  Harper, who was stretched out in front of the hearth, lifted his massive head and thumped his tail in agreement.

  Woodbridge shivered and took a gulp of brandy. “I wasn’t skulking. I was coming to take responsibility for my own cork-brained actions, rather than remain cowering like a lily-livered coward behind my sister’s skirts.”

  “A noble sentiment,” murmured Alison. “But then, I’ve never heard an ill word about your character, young man.”

  Woodbridge made a face. “Well, clearly, my intelligence deserves to be questioned.”

  Cordelia fixed him with a stern look. “You were supposed to stay in the carriage with Professor Sudler and help him keep guard over his invention.”

  “We both agreed it was unmanly to allow you to, er . . .” He glanced at Harper. “To face the wolves, as it were, on your own.”

  “As you see,” murmured Charlotte, “no one has yet been eaten alive.”

  Cordelia’s brother scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “The truth is, I deserve to be fed to the lions in the Tower Menagerie.” The sunlight caught the faint glimmer of gold from the stubbled whiskers. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and somehow that made him look younger and more vulnerable.

  “I know I’m not as clever as Cordelia,” he continued after expelling a ragged sigh. “I just want to take care of my estate and my tenants. A gentleman has a duty to be a good steward of the land and pass it on to future generations.”

  Wrexford felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy. In truth, he found Woodbridge a likable fellow who didn’t appear to have an ounce of guile or cunning to his nature.

  Charlotte seemed to have the same reaction, for she flashed him a sympathetic smile. “We all have our strengths, Lord Woodbridge. Yours are equally important as those of your sister.”

  “But I made a mull of it.” He looked stricken. “What a gudgeon I was to believe—”

  The rest of his words were suddenly swallowed in a deep-throated bark from Harper.

  The earl spun around. He, too, had heard the faint click-click in the adjoining room, where a door led out to the back terrace. The hound was by his side in a flash, and the two of them hurried into the corridor.

  A yelp sounded. Ignoring Charlotte’s whispered warning, Raven snatched up the Elizabethan small sword. But before he could move, Wrexford and Harper returned. And between them was a rotund little man with bushy brows and long silver hair tied back in an old-fashioned queue. He was wearing a shapeless brown coat with oil stains around the cuffs.

  “I take it,” said Charlotte, “that we are about to meet the elusive Professor Sudler.”

  Cordelia chuffed an exasperated sigh. “Isaac, you’re supposed to be standing guard over your Engine.”

  “It seemed rather pointless, as I have no idea how to aim and fire a pistol.” Sudler’s brow furrowed. “Such a primitive mechanism. The engineering could be greatly improved. If one made a cartridge that contained both the bullet and—”

  “Let us leave ballistics aside for now,” she gently chided. “We need to talk about numbers.”

  “Yes, numbers,” said Wrexford. “Lady Cordelia was just about to tell us why they are adding up to murder and mayhem.”

  “That’s because greed became the most important part of the equation for the miscreants.” Sudler tugged at his cuff. “I know what the numbers tell me. But alas, my tongue tends to be clumsy. Lady Cordelia is much better with words, so she had better explain it.”

  “Your tongue may be clumsy, but your hands aren’t,” said the earl. “Your workshop is a marvel. As is your prototype.”

  The professor’s expression clouded. “The Computing Engine is meant to be used as a force for progress, not manipulated for personal greed.”

  “That’s why we’re here. To ask for help to ensure that it’s not used to do evil,” said Cordelia.

  Sudler nodded, but shadows hovered beneath his lashes.

  After a moment of hesitation, she knotted her hands together in her lap and resumed her explanation. “Before I return to the dastards and their scheme, I should first explain how Isaac and I came to be friends and mathematical collaborators. We met when Jamie was studying at Cambridge and attended the professor’s lectures on mathematics. I confess, I occasionally dressed as a man so I could sneak in and hear them, too.”

  “Brilliant gel,” said Sudler with a fond smile. “Far smarter than any of the young fribbles at the university.”

  “We met at several soirees and became close. Since then, we’ve corresponded regularly, and he’s often visited our estate,” she went on. “I’ve been helping him for several years on thinking through the concept of his mechanical Computing Engine and what mathematical operations it could possibly perform. When I began planning to start my own business, we designed some practical tests on how to put its power into practice.”

  Cordelia cleared her throat with a cough. “For now, suffice it to say, we can run certain basic computations at a speed that provides an edge in making certain business transactions. However, the full capabilities of the Computing Engine are still theoretical. It will take years to figure out the final design.”

  Alison gave a curt wave. “I doubt I would understand it even if you tried to explain. So I’m happy to have you skip over a more detailed explanation.”

  Raven appeared about to protest, but a look from Charlotte warned him to stay silent.

  “Never fear, lad,” murmured Wrexford. “You’ll have a chance to learn the details.”

  “And now,” said Cordelia, “I’ll recount exactly how Jamie became involved in Argentum.”

  “Credula est spes improba,” murmured the professor.

  “He who lives on hope dances without music,” translated Charlotte. “Alas, very true.”

  “Actually, it should be me who explains my folly,” said Woodbridge. “I foolishly talked among my friends about how brilliant and clever my sister is.” He darted a fond smile at Cordelia. “I’m proud of her intellect, and I mentioned her wondrous mathematical talent and her work on a revolutionary Computing Engine. Shortly after that, I was approached by a friend, who asked if I might be interested in working on a hush-hush enterprise created by the East India Company. He gave me some Canterbury tale about the need for secrecy. It had something to do with not letting a trading consortium on the Continent get wind of the idea.”

  “And you naturally believed him,” mused Charlotte.

  “Yes. One assumes one’s friends are telling the truth,” replied Woodbridge. “And the fact that I was guaranteed a large profit made me even more gullible.”

  “But why you in particular?” asked the earl.

  “Because they said they needed a titled gentleman to secure bank loans so no one would know the money was being raised for the East India Company.”

  “But why did the East India Company need to raise outside money?” asked Charlotte. “From what I’ve heard, their coffers are overflowing.”

  “I know, I know. I should have smelled a rat.” His voice took on a bitter edge. “Cordelia did, but the henchman—the Cobra—had another Canterbury tale to explain the reason.”

  Wrexford was suddenly beginning to see the pieces of the puzzle and how they fit together. “Actually, I would venture to guess that the board of directors doesn’t know about this enterprise. The conspirators are operating a private business within the Company.”

  “Yes, that’s my su
rmise, though I have to believe it’s being run by someone in a very senior position,” said Cordelia. “Whoever put together the idea is using Company assets, like ships and trading partners, as part of their illicit scheme. And they’ve set up fraudulent trading accounts on the Company’s ledgers to keep track of the profits and pay out the bribes to the various partners, making them appear to be legitimate Company business. Henry Peabody somehow stumbled across the truth and tried to stop the scheme by giving us copies of the ledgers.”

  “Who is the friend who approached you?” Wrexford asked, finally feeling they were getting somewhere.

  “The Honorable David Mather,” answered Woodbridge. “But my sense is they have some hold over him, too, and forced him to find a likely pigeon.”

  “It seems the dastards have been very careful to shroud themselves in secrecy,” mused the earl. “And clever. They had Mather find a respectable aristocrat with lands to guarantee any loan. Only Mather and Hoare’s bank knew of Woodbridge’s financial troubles, and they keep mum about such things. There’s a code of silence and discretion within the banking world.”

  Sheffield looked at Cordelia’s brother. “Which meant the other banks willing to do business with you also kept the information private. And with one hand not knowing what the other was doing, you were able to borrow far more than your actual assets should have allowed.”

  Woodbridge’s grimace confirmed the surmise.

  “So, now we know the background,” intoned the earl. “What went wrong?”

  * * *

  The echo of the words seemed to linger, reverberating again and again against the dark wood paneling.

  Leaning forward, Woodbridge took his head in his hands.

  Charlotte felt a surge of sympathy. Her late husband had fallen prey to the unscrupulous scheming of so-called friends. He had been too desperate for an easy way out of his troubles to see through the lies and fraud that had quickly ensnared him.