Murder at Queen's Landing

by Andrea Penrose

  “I’ll say I’m lost, and if pressed, I’ll burst into tears.”

  Raven’s recital of the plan steadied Charlotte’s fluttery nerves. As Wrexford had assured, there wasn’t any danger to this part of it.

  “I need to scarper, m’lady,” he added in a rush. “I can’t be late.” The timing called for Raven to arrive right before the end of the working day, in order to lessen the chances of a clerk entering the storage room and noticing the window wasn’t locked.

  “Go,” she said after giving him another quick hug.

  “Don’t worry,” counseled McClellan as Raven raced out to the back garden, where Hawk was waiting by the loose board in the back fence. “This is child’s play for Raven. He won’t have any trouble doing his part.” The maid’s expression betrayed a tiny flicker of concern. “It’s Wrexford who may face trouble. I imagine there are guards patrolling the building at night. And given what the enemy has to protect, I imagine they won’t hesitate to use violence—”

  Charlotte turned from watching the shadows flitting through the corridor, her expression causing the maid to fall silent.

  “In which case, they’ll be in for a rude surprise.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Squeezing himself deeper into the narrow gap between the warehouses, Wrexford cast a look at the darkened windows of East India House’s rear façade. The last light had gone out perhaps a quarter hour ago, but he had decided to err on caution and wait a little longer, just to be sure the inner offices had settled into slumber.

  However, the ominous clouds blowing in from the east stirred a prickling of uncertainty. A trail of telltale raindrops would make his intended foray even more dangerous.

  He had only himself to blame for that. I was so bloody sure Copley would agree to a deal.

  Now that Copley knew his illicit activities were no longer a secret, would he have arranged for additional security in his own area of the building? Guards who wouldn’t hesitate to shed blood to keep any proof of the misdeeds from slipping out?

  Cursing himself for a fool, Wrexford fingered the pocket pistol inside his coat. He had broken his own cardinal rule in leaping to conclusions. Hubris was not without a price. However, it was of some solace that breaking into the building put only himself at risk,

  A sound, a mere whisper among the other night rustlings, snapped his attention back to the moment. Wrexford noiselessly shifted his stance and flattened his back against the bricks. As of yet, he had seen no sign of guards patrolling the building’s perimeter. With luck . . .

  A wraithlike shadow, a swirl of vapor within the gun smoke–grey mist, flitted past the opening to his hiding place. The night was always alive with denizens of the dark, intent on no good.

  All was still again. He slowly let out his breath....

  “Wrexford.” The wraith slipped into the slivered space, the brush of wool against his shoulder an unwelcome assurance that it wasn’t a figment of his brooding.

  “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “I assume that’s a rhetorical question.” Like him, Charlotte was dressed all in black, with a silk mask hiding her face. The eyes slits, however, revealed an all-too-familiar steely gaze.

  “I—”

  “Ssshhh. Keep your voice down,” she whispered. “Two can search quicker than one. And I’ve even more experience than you do in this sort of endeavor.”

  He couldn’t argue on that point. “But the risk—”

  “Is the same for you.”

  A fraught silence quivered between them. Wrexford tried to maintain his righteous anger. It was wrong to feel a warmth steal through his bones. Duty demanded that a gentleman protect the weaker sex—

  The weaker sex—ha!

  He surrendered a grudging smile. “Two conditions—I lead the way, and if I order you to fly, you don’t argue.”

  Charlotte hesitated. Debating, no doubt, how finely she could parse the definition of order.

  “Very well,” came her answer. She looked across the walkway to East India House, its pale Portland stone rising from the fog like a massive ship under full sail. “After you, sir.”

  Wrexford led the way to the ground-floor storage room where Raven had wedged open the window. A quick tug raised the sash, and he slithered inside. Charlotte was right behind him and pushed it back into place. After taking a thick piece of felt from his pocket, he cleaned the bottoms of his soft-soled shoes and wordlessly passed the cloth to her.

  The storage room’s door had been locked for the night. Wrexford eased the bolt open and checked the corridor. Upon finding all was still, he crept into the gloom.

  Tyler had procured a floor plan of the interior, and the earl had memorized the way to Copley’s set of offices. A small folding lantern was in his pocket, but he didn’t wish to risk a light until they reached the baron’s inner lair. Navigating by touch and feel, he followed the wall to a side stairwell. Their steps padded noiselessly over the smooth stone.

  Another door, which opened to reveal an unblinking darkness.

  Charlotte grasped his sleeve just as he started forward, and cocked an ear. Wrexford heard it, too—the click of steps echoing from the front of the building.

  They waited. The sound quickly faded away. There was, he knew, a night porter on duty at the main entrance. The logbooks and company correspondence that sailed with every East India merchant ship could arrive at any hour.

  He signaled for them to continue. Copley’s offices were to the left, behind an ornately carved set of locked teak doors.

  Snick, snick. The steel probe jiggled, and the tumblers released with a discreet sigh.

  A bank of windows on the wall facing Leadenhall Street allowed in just enough illumination to show a large room filled with long rows of wooden desks and stools on either side of a center walkway. In daytime, a regiment of scriveners would be busy with pen and ink . . . fifty tiny hearts beating in tune, compiling the leather-bound ledgers that recorded the Company’s lifeblood flowing in and out.

  Straight ahead was another set of teak doors, ornamented with inlaid ivory. These, too, were locked.

  “You really must show me how to do that,” said Charlotte, crouching down beside him to watch.

  “You’re dangerous enough as it is,” he replied. “I shudder . . .” Snick, snick. “To think what mischief . . .” Snick, snick. This mechanism was more complicated than the first one.

  “Ah, finally,” he said. The doors swung open on well-oiled hinges.

  Wrexford gestured for her to enter the inner office, then carefully reset the lock.

  The large room was tastefully furnished in dark woods, with brass accents on the document storage cabinets adding a nautical look to the well-ordered space. Two desks sat side by side. A glance at the open appointment book on the nearest one seemed to indicate this was where Copley’s personal secretaries toiled. A small side office looked to belong to a senior administrative assistant. After a cursory glance at the stack of ledgers, he returned to the main room.

  Up ahead, an archway opened into a short corridor. Charlotte was already wreathed in its shadows, moving lightly on the balls of her feet.

  She returned a moment later and gestured for him to come along.

  “This must be Copley’s private lair,” she said once he had joined her. “The door has two locks.” A grimace. “I feel as though I’m inside one of those elaborate Russian wooden dolls. You know, the ones that nest inside one another.”

  “Matryoshka dolls.” He set to work with his steel probe. Secrets within secrets. Logic said that Woodbridge’s documents, if they were indeed here in East India House, would be kept where an underling wouldn’t inadvertently come across them.

  And Copley struck him as a logical gentleman. If he wasn’t . . .

  Charlotte seemed to be thinking along the same lines. She looked back over her shoulder at the outer offices. “We won’t have time to search everywhere. What would you suggest we do? We can either both search the baron’s lair, or you
can concentrate on his room, while I use my intuition to guess where in the outer rooms he might have hidden the banking papers.”

  Wrexford found himself wavering, but only for a moment. “Blackmail . . . Even if the story Copley told me was a humbug, it shows his concern with blackmail. I think he will be keeping them close.”

  A nod signaled her agreement.

  He took hold of the door latch and eased it open. “Then let’s get to work.”

  * * *

  Charlotte heard a soft hiss escape from his lungs as he stepped into the office. In the next instant she saw why.

  Along with the array of bookcases and storage cabinets, the room held a number of display shelves showcasing exotic curios, many of which were quite large and ornate. In addition, there were a number of carved wooden statues—they looked to be Hindu deities—painted in jewel-tone colors, with bits of gaudy glass adding extra glitter and texture.

  All of which could contain hidden compartments, perfect for hiding a sheaf of paper.

  “Hell and damnation,” she agreed as he reset the locks.

  “Let’s not waste our breath feeling sorry for ourselves,” he muttered. “I’ll start with the desk.” He took out the folding lantern and set the candle and shutters in place, then indicated the small oil lamp on the tea table. “We’ll have to chance a second light.”

  The clouds had thickened, and a few windblown raindrops were spattering the window glass.

  “You’ve the more artistic eye,” he said, easing open one of the drawers. “See if you spot any signs of a hidey-hole within the statues. Then move on to the storage cabinets.”

  They worked in methodical silence, with naught but the sigh of paper and the whisper of opening and closing drawers joining the patter of the rain.

  Charlotte decided not to spend much of their precious time on the statues. The elaborate carving and inlaid glass made it difficult to discern any telltale seams of a secret compartment. After circling the room, she returned to the storage cabinets, which each contained multiple drawers filled with neatly filed folders.

  Luck. They would have to be extraordinarily lucky to find the dratted papers.

  She finished with one row of financial reports—Ye heavens, it seemed that half the wealth of the world must pass through the Company—and moved on to the next one. Halfway through it, she paused to flex a crick from her neck....

  And froze.

  Footsteps. Beating a hurried tattoo on the marble floor and coming closer.

  “Someone’s coming,” she hissed and quickly blew out her own flame. A night watchman making his rounds? Then perhaps he would simply turn away at the first locked doors.

  Wrexford wasn’t counting on that. “There’s no time to flee,” he responded, batting the air to disperse the tiny curls of smoke. “We need to hide.”

  Charlotte was already moving for the massive elephant-headed deity standing in the far corner, flanking the tall bank of mullioned windows. Having made a careful inspection, she knew there was room behind it. Better still, heavy damask draperies hung within the deep shadows.

  “In here,” she urged, finding an opening within the folds.

  He squeezed in, and she followed, then flattened her back against his chest and twitched the fabric back in place.

  The scrape of key sounded in one of the locks.

  To her horror, she felt the earl move . . . but it was only to make a tiny peephole.

  More scraping . . . the brush of boots over the woven carpet. . . the strike of flint against steel.

  And then the tiny sputter of a candle coming to life.

  Charlotte held her breath, hoping the darkness muddled the shape of the draperies enough to hide their presence.

  A cabinet opened. Rustling . . . and then a metallic thunk. She leaned back, just enough to see through the slivered opening. The flickering flame revealed a lone figure in a caped coat, but she couldn’t see his face. He had just placed a brass box on the counter and was hurriedly unfastening the lid.

  She felt Wrexford fist his hands in frustration as the gentleman pulled out a set of folded documents and clicked the lid shut. After a quick look at the papers, he tucked them inside his coat and quickly returned the box to the cabinet.

  He turned and, with a quick puff, blew out the candle and stepped out of view.

  It seemed like an eternity before the sounds of his retreat faded, leaving only the spit of rain to keep them company.

  Chuffing an oath, the earl pushed through the fabric.

  “Was it Copley?” she asked.

  He nodded. “How is it the bloody dastards keep staying one step ahead of us?”

  “Perhaps because they’re impelled by panic,” she replied. “We’re breathing down their necks.”

  “Always the optimist,” growled Wrexford. After glancing around the room, he gave a shrug. “Come, there’s no point in lingering here.”

  She followed him to the outer office and paused while he reset the locks. The papers had slipped through their fingers tonight, but perhaps all was not lost. An idea was beginning to form....

  Her mind on their next move, Charlotte trailed the earl into the main workroom. Halfway down the center aisle, she slipped on a patch of wetness and bumped into one of the long work desks.

  Wrexford turned and speared her with a silent rebuke.

  How odd, she thought. Copley’s coat hadn’t looked dripping wet, and yet there seemed to be a large puddle on the marble. Her shoe was soaked. Looking down to avoid another mishap, she took a careful step....

  Only to see her sole leave a streak of blood on the pale marble.

  “Don’t dawdle,” chided Wrexford in a taut whisper, but as his gaze followed hers, he fell silent.

  Charlotte dropped to a crouch and immediately spotted the body shoved up against the wooden back of one of the desks. The man was lying facedown.

  “The killer knew what he was doing,” said Wrexford, after avoiding a dark rivulet of blood that snaked across the tiles and making a quick examination of the body. “The thrust was precisely aimed. It’s not easy to avoid a rib.” He fingered the rent in the victim’s coat. “The blade looks to have been a rather wide one . . . but never mind that now.”

  She watched as he gingerly turned the man over. The sightless eyes were open, the white gleaming bright despite the gloom.

  Wrexford leaned in closer and let out a grunt of surprise. “It’s Fenwick Alston.”

  “H-how do you know that?”

  “The scar on his cheek. It’s exactly as Sir Darius’s friends described it.”

  “Fenwick Alston. But . . .” Charlotte shook her head. “But that makes no sense. Surely he’s one of the ringleaders, so why—”

  He pulled her to her feet. “Never mind that now. We need to leave, and quickly. Strip off your bloody shoes until we’re outside. I’d rather that the body isn’t found until morning.”

  They retraced their route to the lower storage room without incident and were soon deep within the maze of alleyways leading back toward Mayfair.

  Wrexford appeared in no mood for conversation, and Charlotte didn’t press him. At the moment, there was naught but a single question echoing inside her head.

  What the devil is going on?

  CHAPTER 27

  “Griffin wasn’t at all happy at being informed that he and his men will find a dead man within the inner sanctum of East India House—and that you suggested he have the corpse taken to Henning,” announced Tyler as he entered the breakfast room. He peeled off his gloves and poured himself a cup of coffee before adding, “Though judging from his querulous tone, my guess is he hadn’t yet had his breakfast.”

  “Nor have I,” said Wrexford. It was only an hour or two past dawn, and his mind was a little muzzy. He gulped down another long swallow of his own dark brew, hoping to scald his senses to full alert. “Shirred eggs and toast will be out in a moment.”

  “Griffin asks that you send him a note explaining what happened.”


  The earl refilled his cup and blew away a plume of steam. “He will have to be patient. I’m not prepared to tell him anything for now.”

  Tyler took a seat at the table. “Do you think Copley killed Fenwick Alston? By your account, there wasn’t much time for him to do it after he left you.”

  “He could have done it on his way in. The two of them could have quarreled over strategy, and Copley decided his partner had become a liability,” mused Wrexford. “But it does seem out of character.”

  “Then perhaps we need to think more about David Mather,” said the valet. “Given what Sir Darius and his friends told you, the fellow may not be an underling, after all.”

  Wrexford pursed his lips. “That occurred to me, as well. In retrospect, he, of all people, was in a position to know that his cousin had discovered the fraudulent accounting going on within the East India Company. In fact, Henry Peabody might well have confided in him.”

  “And then, suspecting that Annie Wright knew about it, too, he lured her to take refuge on an East India merchant ship with a promise of escaping danger,” suggested Tyler.

  Finally, the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit together.

  “It makes sense,” he agreed. “Mather has gained an expertise in finance, which makes him very useful to an illegal consortium. More than that, handling money for the wealthy and privileged has likely made him both jealous and ambitious to enjoy the same luxuries. I doubt that it would have been difficult to seduce him.”

  Breakfast arrived, and the earl leaned back as Tyler helped himself. “Once you’ve filled your gullet, head down to the dockyards and see what other information you can gather on the merchant ship’s departure. It would be helpful if someone can confirm that Mather wasn’t on it.”

  Tyler sighed through a mouthful of broiled kidney. “No rest for the weary.”

  “I don’t pay you to sleep.”

  Another mumbled comment, which Wrexford pretended not to hear. He reached for a piece of toast.

  “Your pardon, milord.” His butler appeared in the doorway. “But a message has arrived from—”

  “From Lady Charlotte,” announced Raven, darting past Riche and slapping a folded missive on the table. Hawk was right behind him.