Murder at Queen's Landing

by Andrea Penrose

  “If Luck falls our way, we will all soon be resting easy.”

  * * *

  Charlotte paused in her pacing to take a look out the window of her workroom. No sign of the boys. But a grudging glance at the mantel clock was a stark reminder that sheer force of will couldn’t force the hands to turn any faster.

  “Then again,” she muttered, “perhaps Professor Sudler could design an intricate machine to make time fly.” A sigh. “His Engine certainly makes numbers do things that astound the imagination.”

  The street below was quiet, with naught but a stray dog sniffing through the bushes. A breeze ruffled the ivy growing outside the mullioned glass, setting the dark, glossy leaves to chattering against the panes. Twitching the draperies back in place, Charlotte returned to her desk and picked up her pen.

  The half-finished sketch was a clever composition. A caricature of Copley peered out from behind an ornate tea chest, its lid open to reveal a pile of silver coins. In pencil, she had lettered a large caption that read WHAT IS LORD COPLEY HIDING?

  But instead of dipping the nib in the inkwell, Charlotte set her pen down in frustration. Until Wrexford returned from his meeting with the baron, it was pointless to continue. Satire was most effective when one knew a subject’s weaknesses. And given the events of last night, it was she and her friends who were most vulnerable.

  Copley was no fool. She shuddered to think of how he meant to leverage his advantage.

  Another glance at the clock. Surely by now, the meeting was over.

  Realizing that her hands were shaking, she curled her fingers into fists and pressed them to her temples.

  Where the devil is Wrexford?

  * * *

  A muted jingle of bells sounded as Wrexford pushed open the door to J. F. Stockton & Co. Despite the windows looking out on the narrow side street, the reception area was dark, and the air fusty with the scent of stale smoke and sour cabbage. A lone clerk was at work at the desk behind the reception counter, a massive fortresslike hulk of age-black oak that looked deliberately designed to repel intruders. He rose reluctantly, his eyes narrowing to a suspicious squint as he peered out at the earl.

  “Yes?”

  Wrexford assumed his most imperious stare. “I wish to speak with Mr. Stockton.” He placed a pristine calling card on the dusty wood and slid it toward the fellow. “I need to conduct some financial transactions, and I have it from reliable sources that this establishment is capable of handling them in a discreet manner.”

  The clerk’s expression turned decidedly less hostile. “Please have a seat for a moment . . .” He waved at two straight-backed chairs sitting in the shadow of the reception counter. “While I see whether Mr. Stockton is free to see you, sir.”

  He disappeared through a paneled door leading to the back of the building. Ignoring the chairs, the earl moved to the window and flashed a quick signal.

  A moment later, the clerk returned, followed by a tall, beefy man with a fringe of greying hair circling his bald pate. His face was unremarkable, save for the ferret-like eyes that gleamed through the round glass of his gold-rimmed spectacles.

  “Lord Wrexford, I am Stockton.” He rubbed his plump hands together. “How may I be of service?”

  “I understand you are an establishment that can be trusted to do its business discreetly.”

  “Quite right, quite right. Discretion is our motto, milord,” replied Stockton with an oily smile. “We pride ourselves on performing our tasks so efficiently and quietly that no one even notices we’re here.”

  Wrexford pursed his lips.

  “Does that satisfy your needs, sir?”

  “I believe it does.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” Stockton stepped aside with an unctuous bow and gestured for Wrexford to proceed into the inner sanctum. “Let us go into my private office, where we may discuss your needs with all due privacy.”

  The earl took several steps and then turned, making sure to block the opening in the counter so the banker couldn’t slip past him. “Just a moment.” A wave to the window. “My partners in this transaction are joining me.”

  Stockton wet his lips. “W-wouldn’t d-discretion be better served by a more intimate discussion . . .”

  He fell silent as the bells jangled.

  “Not at all,” said Wrexford. “I trust them wholeheartedly.”

  The banker’s throat constricted in a sickly swallow as he eyed the untidy bulk of Griffin, flanked by Sheffield and Woodbridge, squeeze through the front door.

  “Come.” The earl took Stockton’s arm. “Lead the way.”

  The thud of their steps sounded unnaturally loud as they made their way through the dimly lit corridor. Wrexford could smell fear wafting off the banker as the man pushed open the door to his private lair.

  “We needn’t take up much of your time, Stockton,” he said. “What we have in mind is actually a simple transaction. We simply need to close an account that we have with you.”

  Stockton had scuttled behind his desk as soon as Wrexford had released his arm. He was now staring at the earl in confusion. “I fear there has been some m-mistake. You gentlemen have no—”

  “Ah, did I neglect to mention the name of our enterprise?” interrupted the earl. “It’s Argentum Trading Company. Of which Lord Woodbridge is the sole proprietor.”

  Woodbridge stepped forward and placed the official company documents on the desk, along with the account statement provided by Copley.

  “B-but I’ve always dealt with someone else from Argentum,” stammered the banker. “He gave strict orders—”

  “Never mind his orders,” snapped Sheffield. “He no longer works for the company.”

  “B-but . . .”

  “Be assured, you won’t be seeing the fellow again,” said Sheffield with a wolfish grin. “He’s dead.”

  Wrexford gave Stockton a moment to digest the news. “As you see, the papers are all in perfect order. In fact, to ensure that all the legalities are followed to the letter, we’ve brought along our friend Mr. Griffin, the head Runner with the Bow Street magistrates.”

  Griffin shifted his unbuttoned coat just enough to show a flash of his red vest and badge.

  The flickering lamplight showed that Stockton’s face was now the same sickly shade of white as the underbelly of a dead codfish.

  “Once this particular transaction goes smoothly, we’ll all be on our way.” The earl tapped the account statement. “We wish to withdraw these funds and receive a document, signed and witnessed by the present company, acknowledging that Argentum’s account is closed.”

  “I-I haven’t anywhere near that amount of money here, milord. It will take—”

  In one swift motion, Wrexford seized the banker by his soiled cravat and hauled him up from his chair. “On the contrary, you expected to turn the funds over tomorrow. So, you’ve conveniently converted all the various bills of exchange made out to Argentum that have been deposited here over the past three months into standard Bank of England letters of credit, which are negotiable anywhere.”

  Stockton’s eyes were bulging.

  “Yes, I know exactly how you do business with Argentum. Now, make your decision. Head to your safe now, and we’ll overlook your part in this scheme. Or head to Newgate Prison.”

  A whimper as the earl released his hold, followed by a hurried scrabbling as Stockton unlocked his desk drawer and snatched up a ring of keys.

  “And you will, of course, add the additional funds that have come in over this week from the daily arbitrage trades,” Wrexford called as the banker scurried from the room.

  Woodbridge expelled a pent-up breath. “Thank you, Wrexford.”

  “You’re welcome. But next time you’re tempted to make an investment, kindly consult your sister. She has a better head for business than you do.” He passed over a second packet of papers to Lady Cordelia’s brother. “I’ll leave the three of you to finish up here. Once you have the letters of credit, Woodbridge, go to the banks fr
om whom you’ve borrowed and pay off your loans. Once you’re done, I imagine you’ll have a tidy sum left over for putting your estate back in order.”

  Cocking a small salute, Wrexford moved for the door. “Now it’s time to put an end to the rest of this sordid scheme.”

  * * *

  “Copley is dead?” Charlotte had risen from her chair when Raven rushed into her workroom, but now sat down again rather heavily.

  “Oiy!” The boy explained about the shove that had sent the baron to his death, and the ensuing struggle for the documents.

  A horrified hiss slipped from her lips as he described his escape from the man’s clutches. “Thank heavens for Skinny’s quick thinking.”

  Raven grinned, accentuating the purpling bruise spreading over his jaw. “Us guttersnipes stick together.”

  “That scrape needs to be cleaned, and a cold compress put on the swelling,” she said, forcing herself not to think of what else might have happened. As for Skinny . . .”

  “No need to fuss!” Raven danced out of arm’s reach. “McClellan said she’ll have a piece of beefsteak ready to put on the bruise by the time the batch of ginger biscuits comes out of the oven.”

  Charlotte surrendered a sigh. For the boys, sweets were panacea for every ailment. “Very well. But let us go to the kitchen now.”

  McClellan had just set the hot pan of pastries on the hob as they entered the sugar-scented room. A moment later, Hawk flew in through the back door.

  “Biscuits!” he chirped. “Huzzah! I’m famished.”

  A telltale smudge of jam on his chin belied the assertion. And it explained why he had taken so long to return from delivering a note to Alison.

  “After you’ve gobbled down your share,” said his brother, “we need to go down to the docks and ask around for a man by the name of Blue Peter.”

  “Blue Peter?” pressed Charlotte.

  “Oiy.” Raven told her about Copley’s last words. “His Lordship and Mr. Sheffield think the cove must know something important.”

  “Perhaps he’s privy to the identity of the man who’s manipulating all this mayhem,” suggested McClellan.

  Charlotte shook her head. Raven had dodged enough danger for one day. One did not spit in the face of Luck. “No, I think it best not to stir up suspicions on the wharves until Wrexford has decided what to do.”

  The boy made a face, but he didn’t argue. “Optimam partem exercitus discretio,” he murmured. Discretion is the better part of valor. “I suppose that makes sense. His Lordship wants us all to gather at his townhouse right after dark, so we can draw up a plan for crushing these bastards.”

  “Don’t say ‘bastard,’ ” whispered Hawk. “It’s very ungentlemanly.”

  Raven crammed a biscuit in his mouth. “Those bastards ain’t gentlemen.”

  * * *

  “Well, well.” Sir Darius steepled his fingers and stared pensively at the fire burning in the private parlor’s hearth. “Both Alston and Copley are dead?”

  Wrexford nodded. “Within hours of each other.”

  His friends Jiang and Gu exchanged troubled looks.

  “Our informants have passed on no other names,” said Jiang. “That means whoever is in charge is—”

  “Diabolically clever and cunning,” finished Sir Darius.

  “There’s Mather,” pointed out Gu. “Though it would surprise me. He’s ambitious enough but doesn’t strike me as having the cold-blooded imagination for such actions.”

  For a long moment the only sound in the room was the hissing of the undulating flames.

  “Copley said the name Blue Peter with his dying breath.” Wrexford raised a brow at the two Chinese diplomats. “Have any of your informants mentioned a man by that name?”

  They shook their heads.

  “The only other clue is that the assassin was wearing white gloves,” the earl added.

  Jiang tapped his fingertips together. “But all you English gentlemen wear gloves when you go out, and in a wide assortment of colors.”

  “Yes, but never white,” replied Wrexford. “It must mean something.”

  The echo of his words seemed to crackle through the air, along with the sound of the crumbling coals.

  “By Jove, of course!” Sir Darius suddenly sat up straighter, nearly tipping over his chair. “Blue Peter! It’s not a person. It’s a nautical flag! One that’s flown from the topmast to signal all hands must return to the ship because the vessel is about to set sail. The thing is . . .”

  Wrexford went very still, waiting for him to go on.

  “The thing is, it’s mostly used by the Royal Navy. And it’s British military officers who wear white gloves.”

  “We saw a naval frigate moored at one of the East India Company docks yesterday,” said Jiang.

  “And were told that it’s rare to see one there,” added Gu.

  “Which wharf?” demanded the earl.

  “The one nearest Old Dock,” replied Jiang.

  “The devil be damned.” The earl snatched up his hat and bolted for the door.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” called Sir Darius.

  “To beat a dastard at his own cunning little game.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Tyler looked up as Wrexford slipped into the workroom. “The others are all gathered downstairs. I’m just gathering some papers Lady Cord—”

  “Ssshh.” The earl quietly closed the door. “I prefer to come and go without them knowing I’ve been here.”

  “Trouble?” asked the valet, watching the earl take down the pearwood case holding his pistols from one of the shelves.

  “Perhaps.” He checked the priming and then shrugged out of his snugly tailored dress coat. “Kindly fetch my black overcoat.”

  The valet returned in a moment from the adjoining storeroom. Wrexford slid the weapons into the deep pockets, along with a pouch of extra bullets.

  “I need you to do one other task for me,” he said. “Once you’ve taken the papers to Lady Cordelia, leave quietly, and then go to Bow Street and ask Griffin to come meet me at Old Dock, within the East India Company complex. Have him bring several of his men and find a place to hide and wait for my signal.”

  Wrexford added a vial of gunpowder to his pocket. “I’d ask the Weasels to do it, but I fear that Lady Charlotte would feel compelled to follow me.” The idea of her crossing swords with a man for whom violent death was a way of life made the burn of bile rise in his gorge. “And that would be too bloody dangerous.”

  “You know who’s behind all this?” asked Tyler, passing over a thin-bladed knife for the earl to slide into the hidden sheath inside his boot.

  “I do.”

  “The question is, can you prove it?” The valet’s expression was grim. “I’ve heard that Copley passed on a number of incriminating documents, but these dastards have been awfully clever in leaving no tangible clues. And with the other conspirators dead . . .”

  “You’re right. The man who’s been manipulating all the pieces on the game board has been exceedingly clever. However, there is one telling piece of evidence, and I expect to find it tonight. That, along with the confessions in Copley’s note, will be enough to prove the dastard’s guilt.”

  Wrexford reached up and adjusted his hat, pulling it low on his brow. “You see, I now understand what those mathematical calculations that Lady Cordelia and the professor have been running are for. Our adversary isn’t just interested in buying and selling silver. He’s got an even more lucrative plan in mind.”

  Tyler, never one to dither in his thoughts, hesitated in answering. “Which makes him even more bloody dangerous.” Their eyes met. “You shouldn’t go alone. I’ll come—”

  “No,” he said flatly. “Copley’s murder proves the ringleader has at least one ruthless henchman on the loose. Lady Cordelia and the professor may be at risk, so I need you and Kit to remain on guard here.”

  The valet’s nostrils flared in frustration.

  “There’s no need to
worry. Griffin and his men are reliable.” After a last pat to his pockets, Wrexford turned without further word and moved noiselessly into the corridor.

  A muffled laugh floated up from the stairs leading down to the kitchen and workroom.

  Charlotte. However faint, her voice had a way of wrapping itself around his heart.

  He paused for just an instant and then quickly retraced his steps to the front of the townhouse, taking care to stay light on his feet as he crossed the marble tiles of the entrance hall. Silence shrouded the unlit space. He reached for the door latch—only to freeze as a muted click-click caught his ear.

  A long moment slid by, and then it came again. Click-click. He turned to see a large shaggy shape materialize from the gloom.

  Click-click. Harper padded across checkered tiles, his long claws trailing tiny sounds across the stone.

  “Go back,” growled the earl, punctuating the order with a brusque wave.

  The hound stopped and wagged his tail.

  “Back!” he repeated. “Stay with the Weasels.”

  A whuffle. Which sounded suspiciously similar to a human sigh. Wrexford held his breath, silently cursing Tyler’s soft-headedness in bringing the big beast to London simply to amuse the boys. But to his relief, Harper turned, head drooping in disappointment, and retreated back the way he had come.

  He waited until silence had once again settled over the house, then eased the door open and slipped out into the night.

  * * *

  The tide was at low ebb, the stink of decay rising up to foul the mist-chilled air.

  The earl crept down Robin Hood Lane and let himself into the East India docklands through the locked gate by Leicester Street. A cluster of squat warehouses stood huddled dark on dark within the gloom. After following the narrow walkway around to the front of the complex, he found a recessed niche and took shelter in order to survey the surroundings.

  Up ahead, past the cluttered shipyard, a glimmer of moonlight on the wind-rippled water showed the silhouette of the naval frigate moored in the protected pool of Old Dock. Flickers of lantern light showed the ship wasn’t sleeping.

  Was that a flutter of a naval flag atop the mainmast? Wrexford squinted, but the distance was too great to tell for sure.