Murder at Queen's Landing

by Andrea Penrose

  Wrexford nodded. “I’m very aware of that. I’ve spent the afternoon speaking with friends who are more intimately acquainted with the workings of the Company than I am. The recent Charter Act has created factions within the board of directors, so the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that the Argentum scheme is not some secret official endeavor of the East India Company, but rather a purely private financial manipulation.”

  “Even so, the men involved are powerful and possess the means to eliminate any threat to their objectives.”

  “Which is all the more reason to knock those who seek to abuse such responsibilities on their arse,” responded the earl. “Yes, in the past, I might have recognized wrongdoing but have felt cynical enough to dismiss it as the way of the world. But friendships change one’s perspective.”

  In ways that defied mere words.

  “It matters deeply to fight wrongdoing. Not just for friends, but also for those who can’t fight for themselves.” Charlotte, he knew, had always understood that. It was, he realized, one of the things he loved best about her.

  Tyler struggled to smother a smile. “It seems the cynic may be turning into a sentimentalist.”

  “Don’t hold your breath waiting,” retorted Wrexford.

  “Quite right. I’ll need it for trudging through the rain and muck to dig up whatever dirt I can find on Copley.” The valet fetched his hat and coat from the corner of the room. “Still, let us both tread carefully, so we don’t end up falling down some deep and dark chasm . . .”

  * * *

  Tyler’s words were still echoing in his ears as the earl entered White’s an hour later and made his way upstairs to wait in the parlor adjoining the game room. He flipped open his pocket watch and watched the hands slowly move to mark the hour.

  Tread carefully. Wrexford had been mulling over the admonition on his walk to the club. It was good advice, given the situation. But sometimes a bold step was necessary to force an enemy into making a fatal mistake....

  The scrape of chairs sounded from next door as Sir Charles, true to his military precision, announced that time was up and they would continue the game at the next session. Wrexford moved into the corridor and contrived to pass by just as the admiral and his cousin were quitting the room.

  “Ah, Copley.” He stopped and turned. “Actually, might I have a quick word with you?”

  The admiral gave a curt wave. “Don’t rush on my account. I’m toddling home to finish a section of my writing that simply must get done.”

  The earl gestured to the empty parlor. “In that case, shall I have a porter bring up a bottle of port so we can enjoy an unrushed interlude of quiet conversation?”

  “By all means,” answered Copley with a gracious nod. “A tête-à-tête with a man of your wide-ranging interests is always a thought-provoking way to pass the evening.”

  * * *

  A gust tugged at Charlotte’s hat, sending another drizzle of windblown rain snaking down her spine. Hunching deeper into the collar of her coat, she darted through the unlocked gate in the garden wall and hurried to the scullery door. Too unsettled to sit still in her workroom, she had abandoned her sketching and decided to pay a visit to the earl’s townhouse.

  At this hour, Cordelia and the professor would be hard at work running their calculations, and the boys had left their aerie earlier in order to watch. Raven was especially fascinated by the Computing Engine. And while she acknowledged that the mechanical complexities were a technical wonder, it was the flesh-and-blood warmth of friends that Charlotte sought, rather than the solitude of waiting alone to hear from Wrexford about the confrontation.

  The earl’s implication that Copley might be the mastermind of Argentum had chilled her to the marrow. She had no illusions on how often the better angels of human nature were seduced into falling from grace. Still, she hadn’t wanted to believe that the evildoing could emanate from the East India Company’s directors. The power, the privileges, the money they received legitimately should be enough to satisfy anyone.

  “Why?” she whispered, making her way through the damp gloom of the darkened scullery, even though she had long ago learned the answer. For some people, lust—for money, for power, for control—was never satiated.

  The thought stirred a pebbling of gooseflesh on her flesh. Another reminder of how dangerous an enemy they were facing.

  As she slipped out into the corridor, a glimmer of light up ahead helped banish her brooding. The clack-clack of the machine grew louder as she entered the room. The professor was turning the hand crank, setting off a wink of gold sparks from the spinning gears and rotating brass rods. Cordelia was sitting beside him, working furiously with pencil and paper, while Raven watched the proceeding over her shoulder.

  With all the noise, they didn’t hear her come in. Harper, however, awoke from his slumber and woofed a friendly greeting. He no longer looked quite so intimidating. Perhaps that was because Hawk was curled up against the hound’s middle, head pillowed on his shoulder.

  The boy sat up and yawned. “Mathematics is boring,” he confided as Charlotte crouched down to give him a hug.

  “Not as boring or filthy as mouse skulls!” called his brother.

  That didn’t appear to be entirely true. Raven’s shirtfront was smeared with oil and grease.

  Charlotte held up a parcel. “I brought a batch of McClellan’s ginger biscuits for refreshments.”

  Cordelia waggled her finger as she continued to write. “One moment . . .” The rods clack-clacked through another cycle and then came to rest. The professor read off a final sequence of numbers from a set of ivory wheels.

  “Excellent.” Cordelia then looked up. “I’m famished. Biscuits would be very welcome. Let’s also order some tea and take a brief respite from work.”

  The boys helped her clear the piles of paper from a round table at the far end of the room, and they all took their seats as one of the kitchen maids carried in a massive tray with the steaming pot and a cold collation of meats, cheese, and bread to supplement the biscuits.

  “I’ve a question, Professor,” said Raven after noisily gobbling down several of the sweets.

  “Yes?” replied Sudler.

  “You’ve mentioned that your Computing Engine will be key in creating tables, but what are tables for?” replied Raven. “And why do you need a machine when you and Lady Cordelia do mathematics so easily in your head?”

  A grin quivered on Cordelia’s lips. “I trust you’re ready for a rather long lecture.”

  Charlotte had been wondering much the same thing. “I, too, am interested in hearing the explanation.”

  In answer, Sudler rose and fetched a book from one of the worktables pushed up against the wall.

  With everyone momentarily distracted, Hawk quietly filched a piece of ham from the platter and slid off his seat to join Harper.

  Charlotte pretended not to notice.

  Clearing his throat, the professor shifted the tray and slapped the book down on the center of the table, then opened it to display two facing pages.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  “Numbers,” murmured Charlotte dryly. “A lot of them.”

  “It’s a table,” corrected Cordelia. “And while most people haven’t a clue as to the importance of mathematical tables—that is, logarithm tables—without them, a number of our fundamental institutions of society, like finance, insurance, and the military, couldn’t function.”

  Raven took a closer look at the pages. “How so?”

  “This book is compilation of tables made for banks. They are constantly lending money and must calculate the interest rates over various periods of time,” explained Sudler. “A task made even more complicated when they have to compound the interest. To work out the numbers every time they make a loan would require countless hours of work. So standard tables have been created over the years. Say the interest rate is two percent a year, and a banker is making a loan for five years. Well, he can find the t
able for two percent . . .” The professor tapped a finger on the table displayed on the open pages. “Then scroll down to find the line showing five years and read off the correct amount of interest to charge his client.”

  “The military depends on tables for ballistics. Artillery officers use logarithm tables to calculate the variables for distance and trajectory, which allows them to hit their targets,” added Cordelia. “The country couldn’t finance itself without issuing government bonds. And all those complicated computations couldn’t be done without logarithm tables.”

  “But . . .” Raven’s face scrunched in thought. “”But if you already have them, why—”

  “Ah! An excellent question, young man!” exclaimed Sudler. “It’s because every printed table I’ve checked is riddled—riddled—with mistakes!”

  “Human error,” murmured Cordelia.

  “Quite right!” The professor bounced in his chair, his voice growing more animated. “And the mistakes get compounded because the tables are calculated through polynomial functions that require several steps of precise calculation—”

  “Polynomial functions?” interrupted Charlotte in bewilderment.

  “What that means is that there are complicated formulas that require several steps to reach a final answer,” explained Cordelia. “You do one calculation, then use the result to perform another calculation. When they are done by hand, there is a lot of room for error. Whereas a Computing Engine . . .” A smile. “The professor has been working on the concept for years. Together we’ve been striving to find a mechanical design that will be able to perform such complicated mathematics.”

  “And?” prompted Charlotte, fascinated in spite of herself.

  “And this present model . . .” Sudler cast a fond look at the massive brass and steel contraption bathed in the glow of the bright lamps. “Is able to run simple calculations with absolute accuracy! Once I figure out a way to store the results of the first calculation, then shift them to a new set of rods and run the second set of calculations . . .” A look of transcendent joy came over his face. “Then I can envision creating a series of punch cards, like they use in Jacquard looms, to run a program by itself.”

  “That is theoretical, and years away from reality,” said Cordelia softly. “If ever.”

  “Yes, but a man can dream!”

  “Why, sir . . .” Raven sucked in his breath. “Such a machine could revolutionize the world.”

  “Indeed, indeed.” The professor flashed a smile that mingled regret and hope. “I won’t live to see it built. It will require young men like you to pick up the torch of knowledge and carry it forward.”

  A pensive silence settled over the table.

  Raven turned to contemplate the Computing Engine. “You know,” he mused after several moments, “it might be able to run even faster if a small steam engine were to power the hand crank.”

  “What a splendid idea! Come, let us have a look at how that might be done.”

  “Professor.” Cordelia’s voice held a note of gentle chiding. “Much as it’s a good idea for the future, we need to complete our nightly calculations. I must deliver another sample table by the end of the week to the consortium.”

  Sudler’s face darkened. “Knaves and scoundrels! Mark my words! They mean to use the Engine’s power for their own selfish plans, rather than use it to better the world for all.”

  “And we intend to stop them,” countered Cordelia. “But for the time being, we must appear to be cooperating.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Sudler stalked over to the Engine. “Come help me set the numbered wheels for the next calculations, lad.”

  Charlotte began to gather the empty teacups and return them to the tray. Cordelia lingered to help.

  “Have you figured out why the consortium wants the sample mathematical tables they’ve demanded from you?” Charlotte asked.

  “No,” answered her friend. A hesitation. “That is, I have an idea, but I wish to consult with a friend before coming to any conclusions.”

  Charlotte was about to respond when the sound of approaching footsteps drew a low woof from Harper.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. Was it the earl coming with some new information that might bring them closer to unmasking the enemy? After dropping the cups with a clatter, she turned to the door.

  “Where’s Wrexford?” demanded Sheffield after a quick look around.

  “He left several hours ago,” volunteered Hawk. “And hasn’t returned.”

  “And Tyler?”

  “He’s out, as well,” called Raven. “We don’t know where.”

  “What is it?” asked Charlotte, trying to read Sheffield’s face through the pearls of rain dripping from his hat brim. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m not sure,” he answered. “But I took it upon myself to do a little sleuthing earlier today and have discovered something that just isn’t adding up right.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The cork slid out of the bottle with a silky sigh, releasing a tantalizing sweetness, which quickly perfumed the air.

  Copley gave an appreciative sniff. “You know your wine, sir.”

  “I make it my business to know as much as I can about the subjects which interest me.” Wrexford poured two glasses of the garnet-dark port and passed one to the baron. “You’ll find this one quite different from the one we shared the other evening.”

  “But no less enjoyable, I’m sure.”

  “Let us see how it reacts,” said the earl slowly, “once its secrets are exposed to light and air.”

  The baron raised a brow in response but said nothing. Lifting his glass up to the branch of candles, he set the wine to swirling in a slow vortex. Glints of red flickered against the cream-colored plaster wall.

  Wrexford took a small sip. He preferred the sharp heat of whisky to the syrupy seductiveness of port. The sticky richness was like a spider’s web, wrapping round and round one’s tongue.

  “You seem in a philosophical mood,” observed Copley after several moments of silence had slipped by.

  “Does philosophy interest you, Copley?”

  “I’m afraid not.” The baron drank deeply before adding, “I’m a man who thrives on practical challenges. I like analyzing a problem and figuring out how to fix it.”

  “Indeed?” The earl toyed with his own glass. “Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind advising me on a rather delicate matter.”

  “Considering your generosity in serving such superb spirits, I would be happy to offer any help I can.” The candle flames caught the genial curl of Copley’s lips. “What is the problem?”

  “It’s a complicated matter.” Wrexford shifted in his chair and refilled the baron’s glass. “Bear with me while I sketch out the crux of the conundrum. A friend—you may know him, Lord Woodbridge—has found himself caught up in a nasty coil. It seems an acquaintance he trusted took advantage of his integrity and honesty to humbug him. A trading venture was presented to him under false pretenses . . .”

  Copley maintained a polite smile, but his flesh paled as the earl explained about the bank loans and the unscrupulous documents.

  “If I might offer a comment,” said the baron as Wrexford paused to pour more wine. “I’m acquainted with Lord Woodbridge, and much as I dislike speaking ill of a gentleman, he’s known for being an unstable young man, and rumor has it that his profligate father, a man of shabby character, left the family in desperate financial straits. So I counsel you to take his story with a healthy grain of salt. It sounds like a complete hum to me.” A pause. “There is an old adage, ‘Like father, like son.’ ”

  “On the contrary,” said Wrexford. “Woodbridge has the reputation of being a very sober, steady fellow. His only fault seems to be that his own unflinching sense of honor blinded him to the possibility that other so-called gentlemen might not have the same scruples.”

  Copley smoothed a hand over the folds of his faultlessly tied cravat, a glint of gold flashing from his signet ring. He
was no longer looking so amiable.

  “As if such deviousness and deceit weren’t enough,” continued the earl, “the conspirators also forced Woodbridge’s sister into playing a part in their scheme, in order for him to earn back the documents and his original investment—”

  A harsh laugh cut off his words. “Good God, Wrexford. Have you taken temporary leave of your senses? What possible role would a lady play in this . . . this fairie-tale business you’ve been describing?”

  “Lady Cordelia Mansfield is a brilliant mathematician. And she’s been working with a professor from Cambridge on a revolutionary Computing Engine.”

  A sputter as the baron nearly choked on a swallow of port.

  “Using this new technology, the two of them have designed a system for doing arbitrage. As a man intimately involved in commerce, I’m assuming you’re familiar with the term.”

  “I can’t fathom how a man of your intelligence is giving credence to outrageous lies,” exclaimed Copley. “The lady is an odd, unstable spinster. Clearly, her eccentricities have descended into mental instability.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Women are by nature flighty and prone to delusional fantasies. I pity the poor lady, but that’s a far cry from believing such noxious fari-diddles. I’m shocked beyond words that you would be so gullible, sir.”

  Wrexford fixed him with an unblinking stare. The baron held steady for a moment, then averted his eyes.

  “Believe what you wish, Wrexford, but I can’t help you. Indeed, I find myself unable to listen any further to such madness.”

  “I haven’t finished,” said the earl as Copley started to rise. “I suggest you sit down and hear the rest of what I have to say.”

  A telltale quiver of flesh at the baron’s temples betrayed the quickening of his pulse. He was nervous.

  Wrexford waited.

  A faint hiss, like the air leaking out of a balloon . . . Copley sank back into his chair.

  “It’s all very well to dismiss what I’ve said as a flight of fancy,” the earl went on. “But how does that explain the fact that David Mather, the banker in question, was seen boarding an East India Company merchant ship this morning? He was accompanied by a gentleman carrying a distinctive walking stick.”