The Sign of the Raven

by L. C. Sharp

  “Then, when the safe conduct token was discovered, he suspected one of his people was involved. I have no idea who. He keeps them close, he says. Coddington’s murderer wanted to cast blame on the Raven, perhaps to draw attention away from himself.” He paused and shook his head. “That was extremely foolish. He should have known the Raven would come after him. The Raven needs to retain control over his people. He constantly needs to prove his strength. The man rules by terror. He has to, or someone else will knock him off his dunghill. But there’s something more, an attention to detail, perhaps, or a precision.”

  “A desire for control,” she suggested, “and an unwillingness to accept things that are out of his control.”

  “Yes. Which means we know more about him than he might want us to know.”

  Ash gazed into her eyes. “I have an idea. We’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday.” They would have to spare time to attend church.

  Juliana considered herself a woman of faith, but the achingly long sermons some clergymen preferred gave her time to think and plan. At least she did not sleep. Her father snored through services.

  Ash studied her, frowning. “It will keep. We can go after church.”

  “Go where?”

  “Into the lion’s den.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  They attended St. George’s, Hanover Square, on Sunday. The one used by the members of the aristocracy, the most fashionable church in London, designed in the classical style, with a gallery and high-sided pews. The great, good, and influential worshiped there, more to be seen than to celebrate their devotion to God.

  The rector, Mr. Trebeck, was in full flow. Fortunately, his sermon did not last for more than an hour, so they got out of the church before noon.

  Outside, the rector glanced at them, gave them a cursory “Thank you,” and moved on to his next, titled parishioner.

  Only when they had walked away did Juliana realize that she had not even looked for her parents. They would have attended St. George’s, since her father liked to be seen in the right places, but their presence had slipped her mind.

  They didn’t matter to her anymore. Another bond broken. Feeling freer than she had in a long time, Juliana almost skipped by her husband’s side. He glanced at her and smiled. She’d woken in his arms, and the day was fine, spring had arrived, and birds sang in the garden outside.

  Long ago, she’d learned to savor the good moments when they arrived. This was definitely a good moment, and she carefully stored it away to get out again in the future.

  She wore her new straw bergère hat with silk daisies and pinks around the brim. It fastened at the back of her neck with a flamboyant pink bow. Easter was two weeks gone, and so the quiet and plainness of Lent was in the past for another year. Her gown had a pattern of daisies printed on the blue silk. Completely spring like.

  They walked to the house, since people were supposed to do that after church on Sundays, although several people ignored the stipulation and left in elaborately caparisoned carriages.

  They said goodbye to Amelia and Gregory, then continued on to the house belonging to the late Lord Stanton.

  Stanton’s house was, like Coddington’s, dressed appropriately. Black crepe and gauze proclaimed its status, and when they knocked, the door was opened by a man lugubriously arrayed in somber black. “Sir Edmund, Lady Ashendon,” he proclaimed, and bowed to them.

  “So we are,” Ash said, taking a step forward.

  The man, presumably a butler, took the hint and opened the door wider.

  Inside, the cool hall provided a silent, cold, reminder that this house was no longer occupied by a living tenant. “Has his lordship’s family arrived yet?” Ash asked, handing his hat to the man. A footman stood at the back of the hall like a soldier standing to attention.

  “No, sir. His mother will be here within the week, with the late Lord Stanton’s brother, the new earl. The funeral will take place next Monday.”

  That meant they had the house to themselves. “Any other visitors?”

  The butler paused, as if thinking back. “A few, sir. I told them all that his lordship’s body was resting at St. George’s, and they should go there if they wished to pay their respects.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “I have the cards, sir.” The butler went to the cold fireplace and picked up a small stack of visitors’ cards, about ten.

  He passed them to Ash, who flicked through them, then gave them to Juliana.

  “Lady Coddington called, but she left no card,” the servant informed them. His eyes were, if anything, colder.

  Ash exchanged a glance with Juliana. That was the name they wanted to find. But of course she would leave no card. She barely knew the man, or so she’d told them. Not that either of them had believed that for a minute.

  “We are here to examine his lordship’s effects, to try to find who committed this terrible deed,” Ash said.

  Juliana silently applauded Ash. The butler evidently mourned his master, his fallen jowls emphasizing his pallor and bloodshot eyes.

  The man would be more cooperative with that approach. Her bright clothes seemed inappropriate here, and for the first time today, the reality of death reestablished itself.

  Stanton had not deserved to end like this. Nobody did. Whatever he had done did not mean he should escape justice, or meet an arbitrary death dealt by someone who had no right to kill him.

  “We’ll start in his study,” Ash told the butler, who took them to a room at the back of the hall. A comfortable room met their gaze, lined with bookshelves, with a large walnut desk dominating the space near the window. Obviously a private room, since there was only one chair other than the one behind the desk. The books appeared well read, some of the spines cracked. “Stanton spent a lot of time in here,” she murmured after Ash had refused the butler’s offer of refreshment and closed the door behind him.

  “He did.” He studied the green leather cushion of the desk chair. “He left his impression here.” Without hesitation, Ash sat in the chair and reached for the handle of the first drawer.

  Three on each side.

  Juliana busied herself with the folders, taking them down one by one and quickly riffling through the contents. “Property,” she muttered, and put it back. “He seems to be quite well endowed with parcels of land and such. One mortgage on a minor property.”

  Ash pulled the drawer out completely, and placed it on the desk. It contained the usual paraphernalia: stubs of sealing wax, extra candles, some blunt pens and a penknife. Satisfied the drawer contained nothing important, he slid it back and pulled out the second drawer. He pulled the drawer out farther. “Ah.”

  The word was drawn out and made Juliana look up from her task. When he showed her the box with a coat of arms embossed on the lid, she understood. “Open it,” she said.

  He flipped back the catches.

  As they’d both expected, the case contained a pair of pistols and the accouterments for them. Powder flask, tamper, bullet case and cloth were all there. A pistol rested in its proper place, gleaming with care. An expensive pistol, without a doubt. The maker’s name was engraved on the inside of the lid.

  The empty slot gaped at them.

  “We have the other one.”

  “So we do,” he said gravely. “We’ll take the case and give a statement and confirmation that we found it here.”

  He picked the sole pistol out of the case and turned it around, so she could see the trigger and the metal barrel from the underside.

  A tiny coat of arms and the initials of the dead man were engraved there. She hadn’t noticed them before, because they were so small. A badge of ownership. “Why would he take something so recognizable to kill his lover’s husband?”

  “Because he did not expect to drop it.”

  This weapon was n
ot the twin of the one discovered yesterday, after Stanton’s death. It was the pair to the one they’d found by Coddington’s body.

  * * *

  “Men get attached to their weapons,” Ash said as they made their way upstairs. They had found nothing else of note in the study and decided to leave the front parlor until last, since it appeared to be a seldom-used room. He opened the door of the bedroom and nodded to a footman who had brought them upstairs, before shutting the door on him. “He loved those pistols, cleaned them himself. I’ll wager he cursed himself for losing it.”

  “Why didn’t he get rid of the other one? If found, it would incriminate him. It has now done so.”

  “Because he loved them. Despite their quality, the handle was well worn, the case had a few nicks and bumps. Maybe he planned to have another made, once the hue and cry had died down.”

  That sounded all too real to Juliana. People did get attached to objects. When she’d left her parents, she had nothing but the clothes she’d stood up in. When her parents had eventually restored her belongings, she’d searched for a small, almost worthless bead necklace that had been the first she’d owned. She used to finger the beads in church, or when she was unhappy, and later, when the necklace no longer fit, she’d carried it around in her pocket.

  “Men do foolish things.” Ash went to the bed. It had been made, as if nobody had occupied it at all.

  Ash tucked his hands under the first mattress and lifted it.

  Juliana started on the tallboy. Boxes in the first two drawers, no doubt containing male jewelry, cuff links, tie pins, hairpins, ribbons and pins. She’d look through them later. They had found the pistol, so she doubted they’d find anything else.

  She was right about the tallboy. After searching the bed, Ash came to help her, and they made short work of the linen and jewelry boxes. Stanton had a good collection of snuffboxes, all empty but tobacco-scented.

  Juliana tugged at the small drawer on the nightstand. “It’s locked.”

  Ash picked a couple of pins off the nightstand and came over. Obligingly she moved over for him and he crouched down. He inserted the pins into the space, poked about and then, after a deft twist, the lock gave up its secrets.

  “Impressive,” she commented. “Will you show me how to do it?”

  He shot her a sideways glance. “Maybe. If you’re good.”

  She grinned. “I’ll try.”

  He pulled out a bundle of letters, tied with the same red tape Stanton used downstairs for his files.

  “Kept next to the bed,” she pointed out.

  “Where I’d keep yours, if you’d ever written to me,” he murmured.

  He got another smile for that. He meant he valued her. That was enough. It was everything.

  He smiled as he turned the first one over and opened it. “These are love letters. They meant a great deal to him.”

  After unfastening the tape, she handed him the first letter.

  There were twenty of them, and they read every one. Since he’d kept them in date order, they read the progression of the affair between Lord Stanton and Lady Coddington. They’d met last year, at the end of the Parliamentary session, when Stanton had come to dinner at the Coddington house.

  “They’re rather inventive,” Juliana suggested. Lady Coddington was not backward in coming forward, so to speak. She described the excitement of their affair, the thrill the clandestine meetings gave her. “She says, ‘My love, I will visit my mantua-maker tomorrow. The lady is most accommodating, although she doubles her prices for my gowns. But the sacrifice is worth the reward. I will meet you in our usual place. We may expect an hour to ourselves while Madam Constantine designs another of her unspeakably hideous creations. But do not worry, I have an excellent maid who will mend matters for me. My darling, I cannot express how deep my feelings for you, how much I want you. I will be at Lady Justinian’s rout tonight. If I see you there, I will pretend the slightest of acquaintances, but we know, do we not?’”

  She finished with a snort of her own, which appeared to her the best punctuation. “Guff!”

  “You don’t like love letters?”

  “Not like these. She was married, and she had children! How could she betray her husband in such a way? I could understand if he was cruel or unfeeling, but by the reports we’ve been gathering, he was neither of those things.”

  “He wasn’t perfect,” he reminded her. He put down a letter and picked up another one. “This one is later in the affair than yours. She is getting more desperate.” He read aloud “‘My only love, I long to feel your lips on mine, your tongue between my legs...’” He cleared his throat before he continued. “Ah, yes. Very well. More forthcoming, too. She carries on in that vein for some time. I don’t think we need concern ourself with that...yes, here we are. ‘I cannot bear the separation from you for much longer. My husband continues unkind, cruel at times. His debts deepen. I am terribly afraid that we may have to flee abroad before the year is out. I have been trying so hard to prevent his visits to the gaming hells, but I received a visit from a man called Bonham, from a so-called gentleman’s club in Covent Garden. He wishes my husband to pay him ten thousand guineas before the month is out. How are we to find such a fantastic sum?’”

  He laid the letter down on the nightstand, smoothed it out. “I remember the Bonham business. It was the end of last year. Do you recall?”

  She shook her head.

  “We weren’t involved, so you probably don’t. Bonham’s was a reasonably respectable gentleman’s club, which closed after its owner was found dead in the street. Shot. At the time, the murder was blamed on cutpurses. His purse, watch and jewelry were gone. The thief had even stolen the lace off his sleeves and his cravat.”

  “Ah.” She made the link effortlessly. “Coddington’s murderer would have done the same, had he not been interrupted.”

  “Exactly.” He sighed. “Two murders. Bonham and Coddington, both instigated by Lady Coddington.”

  He glanced at another letter. “Here’s the next one. ‘My love, you have eased my lot so much. I cannot thank you enough. I need to see you, to thank you in person. I am due to visit my mantua-maker in the morning, at eleven. Perhaps we could arrange a meeting then. I will be there, anxiously waiting. A man’s debts of honor die with him, or so I have heard. My children and I will be safe.’”

  “She wants to get rid of her husband before he gambles everything away,” she said.

  “Here’s one she sent him after Coddington’s death,” he said. “‘My angel, my husband is dead. He was found at the firework display. I knew I should have gone with him, but I had the musicale set for that night. I love you so much but we must be discreet. We cannot continue. I am so sorry.’”

  She put the letter down. “With her husband dead, his debts of honor die with him. She can look around her, if she’s tired of her current lover.”

  “Cold. Do you think she sees anyone but herself?”

  “No.” That was it exactly. “Everything Lady Coddington did was for her own benefit. She might claim she was doing it for her children, but I don’t think so.”

  They found nothing else, but the gun and the letters were more than enough. They had to tell Fielding. They couldn’t keep this evidence to themselves.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, they were sitting in the Fieldings’ cramped office, with both brothers present. They sent John Fielding’s assistant away, promising to read the blind magistrate the evidence he needed to hear.

  Ash had sorted a selection of letters, but first he gave them the box with the single pistol. “I’m certain this is a match to the pistol used to kill Lord Coddington. We found this in Lord Stanton’s book room.”

  The brothers examined the pistol, or rather, Thomas Fielding examined it, and described it to his brother. “I have the murder weapon under lock and key. I have no doubt it’s the ma
tch to this one. And this one has the identification, the coat of arms and initials.”

  “The other did not?”

  Fielding grunted. “But it’s a match. Did you find the receipt?”

  Ash shook his head. “Though I have no doubt we’ll find it. Stanton kept meticulous records. We were more interested in these.”

  He gave them the letters. “These are the most relevant, but we found a number of them.” He indicated the parcel by his side. “Read them at your leisure, gentlemen.”

  Thomas Fielding read them aloud to his brother. “‘You have sent me into transports of delight,’” he said, and cleared his throat. “Harumph! Yes, well. There’s much more in that vein, but there are hints like this one. ‘My husband is bound and determined to go to the fireworks display at Vauxhall tonight, but he knows I have a musicale arranged. He does not care. He hates me, I am sure, but he never ceases to abuse my body whenever it pleases him. He’s a monster.’”

  Fielding lowered the letter and looked over his gold-rimmed spectacles at Ash. “I don’t remember that part.”

  “I think she made it up,” Ash said, “to gain Stanton’s devotion. He was probably already besotted, but she gave him the push that tipped him over the edge. He killed for her, I am sure of it. Look at the letter she sent after his death. It’s a completely different tone, talking of her devotion, and how they can’t see one another.”

  “Pity,” John Fielding said.

  “A pity it’s a closed case?” his brother asked.

  “Pity the lady was not clearer.”

  * * *

  “What a shame the world is not more straightforward,” Juliana said coolly.

  Thomas Fielding glanced at his brother, then at Ash and Juliana. “She is a countess,” he said heavily. “She has influential friends. If we have any chance of convicting her we need absolute proof. A written confession at the very least.” He tapped the letter before him. “This convinces me, but it might not be me on the bench. As the widow of a peer of the realm, she could claim the right to be tried by her peers, if there is a trial at all.”