Murder at Queen's Landing

by Andrea Penrose

  Swiveling his gaze to the row of windowless brick buildings to his left, he saw a dull hint of light skitter through the fog. One of the far doors appeared slightly ajar. Easing a pistol from his pocket, Wrexford picked his way through the shadows toward the glow.

  A muttering of voices floated out from behind the half-open door. After inching a step closer, he ventured a peek through the narrow gap between the heavy hinges.

  “All is in readiness?” Despite its low pitch, the voice was instantly recognizable.

  “Aye, sir,” came the reply. “Pass me the cargo by noon, and I’ll sail on the afternoon tide.”

  A ghost of a laugh. “Never fear, Barton. You’ll have the precious letter of credit. And once you pass it off to our East India captain in Tenerife, this voyage will be the most profitable one ever.” A pause. “But not nearly as profitable as our other venture.”

  Wrexford allowed a small smile. His guess had been right about the ringleader. You rolled the dice and chose to move the wrong pieces on the game board.

  Barton cleared his throat. “I apologize again for Lieutenant Waltham’s mishandling of his mission.”

  “An unfortunate bungling. But Copley’s crisis of conscience has come to naught. Thankfully, we need not fret over a filthy little urchin who was hoping to snatch money. I’ll wager that the documents have already been tossed away in some stinking alleyway, which serves our purposes just as well,” replied the ringleader. “However, incompetence in our underlings can’t be tolerated. See to it that Waltham is lost at sea before you reach Tenerife.”

  “Aye, sir.” The scuff of leather on stone. “If you’ve no further orders—”

  “Actually, I wish to borrow your book of navigation tables until morning.” A whisper of shuffling papers. “I’ll come with you to the ship. There are times when I miss the feel of a deck beneath my feet.”

  Wrexford quickly drew back and slipped into the narrow gap between buildings.

  The two men came out. A scudding of starlight sparked in the ringleader’s silvery hair as he closed the door behind him. The earl watched them turn onto one of the walkways leading through the warren of smaller storage sheds down to the wharves.

  Hubris. There had been no snick of the lock and no sign of papers in the ringleader’s hands. A fatal flaw in men who think themselves so much cleverer than other mere mortals.

  Holding himself in check, Wrexford remained in his hiding place, watching and waiting to be sure the area was deserted. There was no hurry. He merely needed to retrieve the sample calculations run by Lady Cordelia and the professor—he was now sure the whispery flutter had been made by the incriminating papers—and show them to Griffin.

  The evidence, along with Copley’s letter explaining the scheme and his own testimony, should convince the Runner to arrest the three conspirators.

  As the shadows suddenly deepened, he looked up and saw the clouds were thickening. All the better for making his move.

  It took only a moment to dart around the corner of the building and enter the warehouse. The oil lamp had been left alight, and there on the small table were the mathematical tables created by the Computing Engine.

  Numbers calculated in blood. Three men lay dead.

  The earl reached out to pick them up. . . .

  Only to feel the prick of a sword point between his shoulder blades.

  “Tsk, tsk, Lord Wrexford. You’ve been alarmingly clever about a good many things. But, alas, you failed to realize that a man who’s spent his life at sea becomes attuned to every tiny sound around him, no matter how nuanced. I thought I heard a whisper of wool.” The blade dug in a little deeper. “So I decided to come back. And lo and behold, look what I’ve found.”

  Hubris. Wrexford cursed himself for being such a bloody, bloody fool. “Do try not to put a hole in my coat, Sir Charles. My valet would be greatly distressed. It pains him when I injure my clothing.”

  “An injury to your clothing is the least of your concerns,” replied the admiral. “Now kindly raise your hands above your head.” One by one, he removed the pistols from the earl’s coat pockets and tucked them in his own. “And now turn around. Slowly, if you will. I would hate to cut your throat now, but be assured I’ll do so if necessary.”

  Wrexford did as he was ordered.

  “Well, well, here we are, with the last roll of the dice about to be made.” The admiral’s smile was coolly unemotional. He might have been merely sliding the black-and-white backgammon markers across the game board. “You played well, milord, with a bold and imaginative strategy. I like that in a man.”

  “But clearly, my imagination wasn’t quite a match for yours.” The earl wanted to keep Sir Charles talking while he assessed his options. Which, at the moment, appeared rather limited. “I’m curious. I’ve worked out most of the puzzle, but there are a few missing pieces. How did you first come to have a hold on Copley?”

  “I commanded a squadron of frigates escorting troop ships to India during the Mysore uprising in ninety-nine. As the French were supporting Tipu Sultan, I had orders to remain in the area and keep the oceans under British control,” replied the admiral. “As you know, the navy pays its officers a pittance. While I was based in Calcutta, there was an opportunity to acquire some exotic and expensive merchandise for my trip home. My cousin Elgin owed me a great favor from his youth, and so he signed certain papers that allowed me access to the restricted warehouse, pretending, of course, that he didn’t really know that I meant to steal the items.”

  Sir Charles shrugged. “The saintly Lord Copley was like that. He took great care to ensure that no dirt could cling to his pristine reputation.”

  “And once you had him in your clutches—” began Wrexford.

  “I saw the opportunity for building a smuggling network,” interjected the admiral, appearing happy to have an audience. “Like Elgin, I had a very good mind for business. And ample opportunity to think during the endless hours at sea. A fortuitous meeting with Fenwick Alston provided me with an excellent partner on shore. Together we built a very profitable enterprise.”

  “But then his corruption was discovered.”

  “Yes, Elgin wasn’t able to cover that up. But it turned out it opened up other opportunities.”

  Wrexford thought over what he knew about Alston and suddenly fitted in another missing piece of the puzzle. “So Alston went to the West Indies. As did you.”

  “Very good, milord. You’ve an agile mind. Yes, I asked the Admiralty for a chance to do my duty in the Caribbean. Which offered a great many smuggling possibilities between the French- and British-held islands, as well as America.”

  “It didn’t bother you that you were conspiring with the enemy?”

  “Oh, come, Wrexford. I’ve heard you’re a man who has little patience for the silly strictures of conventional morality.”

  I have even less for selfish greed and cold-blooded murder. The earl managed to hold back the retort. There were still things he wished to clarify, so quickly he changed the subject.

  “So, once Copley returned to England, you decided to move your base of operations to London?”

  “Opium was growing more and more profitable, and we still had a network of partners in India. We simply had to make some logistical adjustments,” explained Sir Charles.

  His expression darkened. “And as the need for our naval presence in the West Indies was lessening, the Admiralty decided to put me ashore at half pay.”

  Greed and hubris, thought the earl, were always a dangerous combination.

  “As so,” said Wrexford, “the idea for Argentum Trading Company was conceived.”

  “Yes, but as the logistics for shipping tea became increasingly complicated, and the bribes involved increasingly expensive, I saw a new opportunity. I’m very good at mathematics, and during the long voyages, I read extensively on stock trading and bills of exchange. The system of arbitrage was intriguing. And then I heard about Woodbridge and his brilliant sister, who had access to a
wondrous machine.”

  “That explains all your commercial ventures,” mused Wrexford. “But tell, when did you realize you could make a fortune from creating truly accurate navigational tables?”

  “Ah.” The admiral looked surprised. “You’re even cleverer than I thought. Pray, how did you figure that out?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he replied, not wishing to risk putting Lady Cordelia and the professor in peril before Sir Charles and his conspirators were arrested. He took some grim solace in the fact that his own death would hasten their demise. “Suffice it to say, I simply began adding up a number of clues—complex calculations, shipping, your expertise in navigation—and came up with the answer.”

  Wrexford paused and then sought to confirm one other piece of the puzzle that Copley had revealed in his letter. “It was you who murdered Fenwick Alston, wasn’t it? I assume it’s because he realized you were going to cut him out of the new venture, and he was seeking to blackmail you over the Argentum business.”

  “You are astute.” Sir Charles gave a mournful shake of his head. “It’s a pity you have to die.”

  Wrexford eyed the naval cutlass, gauging whether he could knock it aside before it slit his throat. However, the admiral, despite his age, was quick to catch the flicker of his gaze.

  The steel point flashed in the lamplight and pressed at a point just below the earl’s chin. A bead of blood welled up.

  “I’m very, very good at the game of war, Lord Wrexford, be it on the backgammon board or in the flesh. As I said, I regret that I can’t let you live. But die you must. However, I’ll do you the courtesy of answering your last question. Yes, accurate navigation tables will make me rich beyond my wildest dreams. As you know, they are a key compendium of numbers that allow sailors to determine their exact position in the ocean after using a sextant to triangulate the ship’s position relative to the sun. And the current ones are riddled with errors. The British government will pay an astronomical amount of money to possess a perfect version, as it gives both naval and commercial ships an advantage over those who don’t have them.”

  The admiral smiled. “Or I could provoke a bidding war. America would likely be willing to make a handsome offer.”

  “A pox on your traitorous hide,” replied Wrexford.

  “Curse me all you like but it’s you who are going to your Maker.” Another prick, another drop of blood. “Now we’re going to take a stroll down to the frigate,” said Sir Charles as he carefully shifted to stand behind Wrexford, circling the sword around the base of the earl’s throat as he moved.

  A walk that would take him through the shipyard, thought Wrexford, where Griffin and his men would be waiting.

  Perhaps all was not lost.

  However, that hope died a quick death, as the admiral prodded him toward a different footpath as soon as they left the warehouse. “We’ll take a more roundabout way to the wharf. One that’s more hidden. We wouldn’t want to be spotted, would we?”

  Wrexford said nothing but kept moving, as demanded by the bite of steel. Somehow, he would have to find a way to make an unholy racket—knocking over some crates or barrels came to mind—and hope that Griffin would come running.

  “Halt.”

  Lost in his thoughts, it took Wrexford an instant to obey. Then he heard it, too—a low raspy sound, like iron reverberating against iron, coming from somewhere close by.

  The admiral peered all around, trying to see through the serpentine swirls of fog. “What the devil—”

  The rasp suddenly turned into a roar. . . .

  And then all hell broke loose.

  As the sword fell away from the back of his neck, Wrexford spun around just in time to see a huge dark shape come hurtling out of the shadows and knock Sir Charles to the ground. A scream rose above the bloodcurdling snaps and snarls as the blade went flying.

  “Get off me! Get off me!” howled Sir Charles, scrabbling at his coat and trying to draw the pistols. He managed to pull one of them free, but as he tried to take aim, a hairy paw batted the barrel away.

  A deafening explosion rent the air, the shower of sparks momentarily illuminating Harper’s bared fangs, mere inches from the admiral’s terrified face. Claw marks cut across both of his cheeks, and his cravat was torn to shreds.

  Wrexford grabbed at the hound’s leather collar and fought to pull him off his prey. “Harper! Harper, enough!”

  The sound of running feet echoed off the sooty brick.

  “Wrexford!”

  “Over here, Griffin!” he called. Releasing his hold on Harper, he pointed to one of the side alleys. “Go!” he said in a low voice. “Sit and stay quiet.”

  The admiral was still curled in a fetal position, moaning as if Cerberus, the mythical hound of hell, were gnawing on his leg.

  A moment later the Runner broke free of the fog and skidded to a halt, several men right behind him.

  “Lord Almighty,” muttered Griffin after eyeing the admiral’s bleeding hands and mangled clothing. “What happened to him?”

  “Divine retribution?” suggested Wrexford.

  Griffin didn’t smile. “Holy hell,” he said, crouching down for a closer look.

  “Looks like one of the guard dogs broke loose from the kennel,” offered one of the Runner’s men. “Those big mastiffs are nasty, ill-tempered brutes.”

  Griffin looked up in question at the earl. And received a shrug in reply.

  “Yes, so it would seem.” Wrexford rubbed at his neck. “Never mind the beast. You need to round up the rest of the dastards. Have your men board the frigate and arrest Captain Barton and Lieutenant Waltham. You’ll also find a sheaf of documents in an open warehouse just up this footpath. Retrieve them. They’ll be important evidence in proving the admiral’s perfidy in one of his many crimes.”

  Griffin barked at his men, and they raced off.

  Sir Charles had recovered his composure and slowly sat up. “Evidence?” He laughed. “A sheaf of mathematical calculations isn’t evidence of a crime. You’ve got no proof of anything.”

  “On the contrary, Sir Charles,” said Wrexford. “Lord Copley wrote a very detailed confession on your various ventures.”

  “But that . . .” began the admiral, and then he abruptly fell silent.

  “But that disappeared?” The earl smiled. “Unfortunately for you, there are some street urchins who know how to read.”

  The admiral paled.

  “And by the by . . .” Wrexford couldn’t resist a last little jab. “You would have found Argentum Trading Company’s bank account empty when you visited Stockton’s bank tomorrow—including not only the original funds but also all the additional profits generated by Lady Cordelia Mansfield. Like you, she’s very, very good at mathematics and business.”

  Griffin frowned. “What in the devil are you talking about?”

  “I’ll explain later about Lord Woodbridge’s sister,” replied the earl.

  Sir Charles was shaking with fury. “The bloody bitch! She’ll go down with me. I’ll make public her financial machinations. Her reputation will be ruined, and she’ll go to prison!”

  Wrexford laughed. “She did nothing illegal. As for ruining her reputation, what man in his right mind will believe such a story! A lady being smarter than all the male stockbrokers in London?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid she outwitted you, Sir Charles. You lost that game, as well as this one.”

  Snarling an oath, the admiral drew the second pistol, but Griffin kicked it from his hand.

  “Get up, you mangy cur.” The Runner seized the admiral by his collar and hauled him to his feet. To Wrexford, he added, “I wish to ensure that my men and I tie up all the loose ends here, so I’d prefer to put off hearing your full explanation until later.” His mouth twitched. “Let us meet at your townhouse in the morning, say, around breakfast time?”

  * * *

  The earl watched Griffin lead his prisoner toward the wharves and waited until the two figures were swallowed in the sea of va
porous mist before turning away to the alleyway behind him.

  “You can come out now, Weasels.”

  A gust of wind rattled the iron padlocks of the nearby warehouses. And then in the hazy silence that followed, he heard the light-footed patter of steps on the hard-packed ground.

  “I gave strict orders that you weren’t to follow me,” he said as he spotted two—or was it three?—wraithlike shapes flitting within the shadows of the alleyway’s opening.

  “We weren’t following you.” Raven’s disembodied voice floated out from the darkness. “We were following Harper.”

  “We were worried about him,” added Hawk. “He’s new to London and doesn’t know his way around.”

  The earl felt his lips twitch. “I should birch your bottoms—all three of you.”

  “Oiy, well,” retorted Raven, “I s’pose a sore bum is worth not having to tell m’lady that your head was severed from your neck and rolled into the River Thames.”

  “Spare the rod, spoil the child,” the earl countered.

  Hawk chortled. “We’re not children. We’re Weasels.”

  “In that case—”

  “Oh, do stop ringing a peal over their heads, Wrexford.” Charlotte slipped out from her hiding place just as a blade of moonlight cut through the clouds. The pale light was lost for a moment in the dirty brim of her urchin’s cap, but she looked up, and in that instant, her face came alive with a luminous glow.

  His heart skittered and skipped a beat.

  “We all know your bark is worse than your bite . . . ,”

  A low woof punctuated her words.

  “By now,” she went on, “you should know better than to think we were going to let you sneak away and confront the devils on your own.”

  It took him a moment to find his voice. “I suppose I keep hoping that Reason will triumph over . . .”

  Emotion? He wished he could give a name to the rippling he saw in the depth of her eyes.

  They stood, gazes locked, as another phalanx of iron-dark clouds stormed in from the west and shrouded the moon. Wrexford blinked, and suddenly he felt her arms come around him and the warmth of her body press against his.