Wrexford watched his friend wolf down a bite. “Remind me to inform Riche that you are to be barred entrance here until your table manners improve.”
“Ha, ha, not a chance. He likes me more than he does you,” retorted Sheffield. “I don’t bite his head off half a dozen times a day.”
The earl let out a grudging laugh.
“Now, will you kindly ring for more coffee.”
As a footman entered with a fresh pot, the earl’s butler followed behind him, frowning apologetically through the trailing plume of steam. “Forgive me for interrupting your meal, sir. But a Runner—Mr. Griffin by name—is here from Bow Street demanding to speak with you.”
“Right on cue,” quipped Sheffield. He rubbed his hands together with an ill-concealed grin of glee. “This should be highly diverting.”
“You have always found farces amusing,” growled Wrexford.
“It’s only natural, seeing as my own life veers to the absurd.”
The earl made a pained face. “Show him in, Riche.”
The butler reluctantly escorted in a tall, stocky fellow wearing a heavy overcoat and a fierce scowl. His red vest was garishly bright in contrast to the dull coloring of his other garments.
Wrexford winced. “Would you be so good as to step out of the sunlight. You are hurting my eyes.”
If the Runner was intimidated by the ornate surroundings, he didn’t show it. Ignoring the request, he pulled a notebook and pencil from his coat pocket and set to work. “Lord Wrexford, the magistrate at Bow Street has sent me here to ask you a few questions concerning the bad blood between you and the Reverend Josiah Holworthy. He was murdered last night.”
“I have heard the news.”
“I wish to enquire about—”
“About my whereabouts?”
“Precisely, milord.” Griffin waited expectantly.
Wrexford took a bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee, sirrah?” asked Sheffield. “It’s black and scalding as the Devil’s arse.”
“I prefer not to accept His Lordship’s hospitality,” came the curt reply. “Especially when it concerns anything liquid.”
Wrexford felt his lips twitch. At least the fellow possessed a sardonic sense of humor to balance his wretched taste in fashion. But then, a red waistcoat was required for the job, so perhaps it wasn’t his fault.
“Now, as to your whereabouts, sir. Aside from a gaming hell on St. James’s Street.”
He put down his fork. The man, as befitting his sleuthhound job, had already begun sniffing around. “I was out walking.”
“Alone?”
“Alone,” confirmed the earl. “I find exercise stimulates the mind, and there were a number of things I wished to ponder.”
The Runner didn’t inquire as to what things. Instead he said, “You are said to have an interest in chemistry. Might I ask why?”
“Because I am curious. The workings of the natural world interest me. They have much to teach us.”
“Curious,” repeated Griffin with a sniff, as if he had smelled something rotten. “You mean to say, your dabblings have no purpose except to satisfy your curiosity?”
Wrexford held his temper in check. “Knowledge is a purpose unto itself.”
The Runner’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. He turned a page in his notebook. “Getting back to last night, milord, did your walk take you anywhere near St. Stephens Church on Black Swan Lane?”
“I have no idea. As I told you, I am usually lost in thought.”
More scribbling. The scratch-scratch sound made him grit his teeth.
Griffin finally looked up from his notebook. “Tell me, sir, what were your thoughts when you heard that the reverend had been murdered?”
“That the sanctimonious windbag deserved to have his throat cut,” snapped Wrexford. “London’s air is bad enough without having it further befouled with buffle-headed superstitions and ignorant lies.”
Sheffield sat up a little straighter. “Careful, Wrex,” he murmured. “Not everyone appreciates your peculiar sense of humor.”
“And just how do you know the reverend had his throat cut?” the Runner quickly demanded.
The earl let out an impatient sigh. “Because the Honorable Mr. Sheffield here kindly informed me of that fact last night—”
“Along with the rest of the gentlemen present in the main gaming room of Lucifer’s Lair,” interjected his friend. “The gruesome news was all over Town. I heard the details at White’s, where the talk was of nothing else.”
“Hmmph.” The Runner started to jot something more in his notebook.
“Bloody hell,” muttered the earl.
But before he could go on, the breakfast room door opened yet again, admitting his valet. Tyler was cradling a thick roll of paper in his arms.
“I’ve just come from the print shop, and—” He stopped short on seeing the red-breasted Runner. “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t realize you were entertaining company.”
He waved off the apology. “Did Quill comment on the murder?”
“Indeed. Have a look for yourself.”
Wrexford quickly cleared a place on the table. Tyler unrolled the print and anchored the four corners with the breakfast plates before stepping back.
Sheffield, all trace of ennui gone, joined the earl in studying the detailed drawing. After a slight hesitation, the Runner did the same. The room fell silent, save for the slight hiss of the oil burners beneath the chafing dishes.
A minute slid by, and then another, and another.
“Look at the coloring,” murmured Wrexford, subjecting the half-severed head to closer scrutiny. “How in the name of Satan does Quill manage this?” He looked up sharply. “Is it accurate?” he asked of the Runner.
Griffin didn’t reply, but the tightening of his jaw was an eloquent enough answer. He blew out his breath and countered with a question of his own. “Why don’t you tell me, milord?”
Their gazes locked.
“You’re wasting your time here. I didn’t kill him.”
“So you say, milord.”
“As does the evidence,” replied Wrexford. “For I am assuming if you had any tangible proof of my guilt, I would already be cooling my heels in a Newgate cell.”
“The investigation is just beginning.” The Runner snapped his book shut. “At the moment, I have nothing further to ask. But I daresay you will be hearing from me again.”
Sheffield watched the man stalk out of the room. “What a tedious fellow.”
“Tedious, but no fool,” murmured Tyler. He looked to Wrexford, but the earl had already returned to examining the details of the print.
“It’s uncanny—Quill must be a demon or a djinn,” intoned Wrexford, “for the fellow certainly seems to possess unholy powers of perception. How else to explain his intimate acquaintance with every sordid secret in London?”
“A good question,” replied Tyler. “But you’re right. I assume you’re looking at the color and strange mottling on the reverend’s skin.”
“Yes. My guess is it was caused by oil of vitriol.”
“Which is?” queried Sheffield.
“A very strong acid,” answered Tyler, fixing Wrexford with a meaningful look. It’s a common ingredient in chemical experiments.”
“Ah. Well, assuming you didn’t kill him, Wrex . . .” Sheffield raised an inquiring brow.
“I did not.”
“Then it would appear that the murderer was intent on making it look like you did. And yet, having gone through all that trouble, why didn’t he leave an incriminating clue?”
The same thought had occurred to Wrexford. “You heard Robin Red-Breast. The investigation is just beginning. There may very well be one and the authorities just haven’t found it.”
“Or they have, and are keeping the information tucked inside their scarlet waistcoats for the moment,” pointed out his valet.
The earl frowned. “For what reason?”
/> “I have no idea, milord.” Tyler rubbed pensively at his chin. “Perhaps it would be wise for me to return to Fores’s print shop and ask a few questions about Quill and where he can be found. If anyone can tell us more about the murder scene, it is he. And that knowledge may prove useful to have.”
“Indeed,” mused Wrexford. “If for no other reason than to learn how the fellow digs up his dirt. The next time I buy a ladybird a necklace, I prefer the price to remain private. The damn scribbler cost me five hundred pounds when La Belle Serena got wind of Diana Fairfield’s gift and demanded an extra bauble not to kick up a dust over a certain embarrassing incident.”
“Bracelets and baubles are not your primary worry, sir. The reverend had a great many followers here in London. The authorities will feel pressure to solve his murder quickly.”
“And why, pray tell, should that concern me?” snapped the earl. “I didn’t do it.”
“What Tyler is tactfully trying to tell you is that whether you are guilty or innocent is irrelevant,” said Sheffield. “It’s all about appearances, and you have to admit, you are the most likely suspect.”
Wrexford uttered a rude oath.
“Swear all you like,” retorted his friend. “But you know I’m right.”
Much as it galled him, he had to concede the point. “Very well, very well. Tyler, return to Fores’s shop and find out Quill’s address. I think it’s time we had a little talk with the artist.” He reached in his coat pocket and took out a purse. The muted clink of metal on metal sounded as it slid across the table. “Take this. Gold is an amazingly effective lubricant for even the most stubborn of tongues.”
“Very good, milord. I shall report back later today.”
“Seeing as things are well in hand, I shall toddle off to White’s and spend the afternoon drinking other people’s brandy and listening to the latest gossip,” announced Sheffield sardonically. “Would you like me to place a wager in the betting book on whether you’ll hang for the crime?”
* * *
“M’lady?”
Charlotte looked up from her sketch on the Prince Regent’s latest peccadillo. Thank God Prinny was always a subject for satire when she was in need of subject matter for her next print. As of yet, she had not heard any juicy tidbits on how the murder investigation was progressing. But now that the boys had returned from the heart of Town that might be about to change.
“Do come in, Raven.” Seeing the smaller shadow behind him, she quickly added. “And bring Hawk with you.”
“I know ye don’t like to be interrupted when you’re working, but there was a fancy toff—”
“You mean a gentleman,” she interrupted. Perhaps it was a lost cause, but she was doing her best to give the boys a modicum of education. They were both very bright, and under her tutelage they had learned to read simple texts. If only she could afford proper schooling—
“Aye, a gentleman,” said Raven, cutting short her musing. “And he was arsking a lot of questions around the print shop.”
Her fingers tightened on her pen. “What sort of questions?”
“He wanted te know where A. J. Quill lived,” piped up Hawk. “But Mr. Fores told him nuffink.”
Charlotte made herself relax. There was nothing to tell. One of the terms Anthony had negotiated with Fores was a promise never to betray his identity. And to make sure of that, he had given the print shop owner a false name—to protect his reputation, he had told Charlotte, for when his paintings became more famous than those of Rembrandt.
It didn’t matter that those dreams had turned to dust and that Anthony was now no longer among the living. Fores didn’t know that. Even if he somehow uncovered the truth, A. J. Quill’s work was making bagfuls of blunt for the shop. He wasn’t going to risk ruining a very profitable arrangement.
“Nor will he, Hawk,” she assured him.
A look of unease still shadowed the younger boy’s face, so she quickly added, “Truly, there is nothing to worry about. The people pictured in my prints sometimes have their lackeys visit Fores with either threats or bribes to avoid further ridicule. He always sends them away with a flea in their ear.”
“Aye,” agreed Raven. “No reason te get your guts in a twist.”
“He wuz there to make trouble,” insisted Hawk. “I wuz watching his peepers. They were sharper than Bloody Jack’s razor.”
Charlotte felt a clench in her chest. The boys shied away from any talk about their past, and she hadn’t pressed them. But she was under no illusions about the brutal realties of life on the streets. Unspeakable horrors were rife in the twisting alleyways. She saw the wariness in their eyes, even around her. Trust made one vulnerable.
And predators pounced on those who betrayed any hint of vulnerability.
“Even with razor-sharp eyes, he won’t find A. J. Quill.” Taking up a rag, Charlotte carefully wiped the smudges of ink from her hands. “I’m famished. Will you join me in some bread and butter, and a cup of tea?”
Hawk shot his brother a pleading look. God only knew when was the last time they had eaten. They were nowhere to be found when she had come down from her tiny bedchamber this morning.
“Yeah, I suppose that would be all right,” allowed Raven. The boy was thin as one of her artist’s pencils, a fact made even more apparent by his having grown several inches over the last few months. But there was a whipcord toughness to his leanness, and a sense of coiled tension ready to snap at any moment.
He brushed back a tangle of hair from his cheek. At first glance it was black as his name implied, but as he moved through a shaft of sunlight, glints of mahogany softened the darkness. “That is, if you are fixing something for yourself.”
“I am.” She set the kettle on the hob and unwrapped a chunk of dark bread, wishing she had spared the extra expense for a fresh white loaf at the market.
Ah, but if wishes were horses then beggars would ride.
On that cheerful note, she set out three cups and cut off several slices. There wasn’t much butter left, but she quickly fetched the jar of jam, which she used sparingly. She tried to feed the boys regularly, but they still were wary of accepting too much from her.
“Come sit.”
They joined her at the little table close by the stove.
“Mr. Fores sent this. He says it’s a small token of his appreciation.” Raven fished out a purse and passed it over. “The print of the murder sold out in an hour.”
Charlotte could see there was a promising bulge in it. An unexpected addition to her nest egg—any extra was most welcome.
“I heard talk in the shop that Bow Street sent a Runner to quiz the earl,” volunteered Hawk. He was smaller and just as skinny as his older brother. But everything about him had less of an edge. Every angle and plane of his narrow face was softer, and his hair was several shades lighter. “Ye think he’ll swing for it?”
“It’s not for me to say,” she replied absently, unknotting the strings and shaking the money into her palm. “Thank you for bringing it, Raven. Allow me to give you something for your efforts.”
Charlotte slid a halfpenny across the scarred tabletop. The boy looked at it for a moment, then took a bite of his bread. “Naw, you keep it. I was comin’ in this direction anyway.”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” she chided. “It’s very ungentlemanly.”
Both brothers grinned.
“Aye, proper little gents we is,” chortled Raven, setting Hawk to giggling.
“Well, you never know when you might be invited to take tea with the Prince Regent.” It was a standing jest between them, but her efforts were having some effect. They no longer ate like wild little wolves.
Now, if only she could convince them to run a washrag over their grubby faces and hands more often....
“I’ve an idea,” she went on. “How about I use your coin to purchase a bit of beef and I’ll make stew for supper to celebrate our good fortune.” She usually limited meat to a few nights a week, but the boys we
re looking painfully thin.
Hawk’s eyes widened in delight. “Hooray!”
“I’ll wager if the fancy toff swings fer the murder, your print of it might earn an even bigger token of appreciation,” mused Raven. “Maybe even a bagful of guineas.”
Hawk sucked in his breath. “Guineas.”
Guineas, thought Charlotte. Lud, wouldn’t a bagful of them be a godsend. But a clench of guilt swiftly silenced the speculation. Yes, she made her living poking fun at the foibles and miseries of her betters. However, death was another matter entirely.
“Let us not speculate on profiting from the hangman’s noose,” she said softly. “We don’t know if the authorities have any suspects for the crime.”
Hawk sat up a little straighter. “While Raven was nabbering with Mr. Fores, a Runner came into the shop. He asked the clerk questions about yer print. Said he had just come from speaking with Lord What’s His Name.”
Charlotte snapped to attention, all thoughts of where to find the best bargain on beef gone in a flash. “What did this Runner look like, Hawk?” If the Earl of Wrexford was really a suspect, she could feast off the scandal for months, regardless of whether or not he hanged for the crime.
Both boys were very observant. Hawk was able to describe the man in great detail.
“That’s very helpful.” After jotting down a few lines in her notebook, she took a fresh sheet of paper from her desk drawer and dashed off a quick letter.
“Would you kindly deliver this right away?” She gave them the address. “You know the procedure.” She tried not to pester her childhood friend too often. But given that he moved in the highest circles of Society, his information in this case could be enormously helpful.
“Shall we wait for an answer?” asked Hawk hopefully. Her friend’s cook was apparently very generous with sweets.
“Yes, if there’s a chance for one. Otherwise, you can return for it in the morning.”
“I was just thinking, m’lady. Whiskers, the streetsweep who works the corner near Bow Street, might have heard some tittle-tattle about His Nibs. We could stop on our way back and have a jaw with him, if you’d like.”
“That’s an excellent idea.” Charlotte had learned long ago that every bit of gossip was useful. Stitching together all the scraps of thread was how one embroidered the plain cloth of a scandal. A. J. Quill was the most popular satirist in Town because of the colorful details. “Thank you.”
Murder on Black Swan Lane Page 3
