Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

  Well reasoned, Kit, thought Wrexford. He had always assumed that Sheffield slept through all the droning of their dons.

  “The thing is, if Lowell had been working on it for our government, there might have been great secrecy—indeed, I’ve heard rumors that Humphry Davy nearly lost an eye experimenting with explosives for our war effort at a special laboratory in Tunbridge—but no need for murder and skullduggery.”

  “The rumors are correct,” interjected Wrexford. He had been privy to the private details. “Davy was mixing chlorine and ammonium nitrate, based on a formula given to him by Andre Ampere. It was for the Royal Engineers to use in blowing up the siege fortifications of cities on the Peninsula. But it proved far too dangerous to handle.”

  “My point is, if Lowell isn’t working for our side, might he be working for the French?” said Sheffield. “The Little Corsican would likely pay an emperor’s ransom for anything that might help turn the war back in his favor,” explained Sheffield. “Look, it’s not always easy being a younger son in an aristocratic family. One often resents the power, prestige, and money that goes to the heir simply by virtue of a quirk of birth. What better way to avenge the unfairness of it all than to strike at the system? Revolutionary France rewards ability, not the degree of blueness in one’s blood.”

  A prolonged silence followed. Henning and Charlotte looked to the earl, waiting for a reaction.

  “Right. It’s likely a foolish conjecture,” said Sheffield, lifting his shoulders in apology.

  “No, it’s likely a brilliant one, Kit,” replied Wrexford, giving himself a mental kick as he recalled the billets doux written in French that he had seen in Lowell’s desk drawer. They had appeared to be love notes making assignations for a clandestine liaison. But they could very well have disguised a more sinister meaning. “The one thing missing is motive, and you’ve hit on a compelling one.”

  “Be that as it may,” pointed out the surgeon, “if we can’t find Lowell, all our fancy conjectures are worth no more than a pile of horse dung.”

  “Lowell is clever but he’s not infallible. He will have left a telltale clue. We just have to find it.” The earl fixed his gaze on Charlotte. “I’m thinking about what it could be. As is Mrs. Sloane.”

  Charlotte had quietly seated herself at her desk during Sheffield’s explanation. She now had pen in hand and was sketching random doodles on a sheet of paper.

  Perhaps, Wrexford mused, she was trying to draw divine inspiration from the familiar feel of the sharpened quill. The alchemists of old had understood an elemental truth about human nature. Symbols and talismans possessed a mystical power.

  “Any ideas yet?”

  She didn’t look up.

  “Think harder. We haven’t much time.”

  Henning uttered a low oath. “Don’t badger the lassie. I’m sure she is doing the best she can.”

  “Aye,” agreed Sheffield.

  “That’s not good enough! She must do better,” began the earl, but the faint jiggling of the door latch caused them all to fall silent.

  A hand signal from Wrexford sent his two friends to flank the inner doorway. Grabbing his pistol from his coat pocket, he moved swiftly into the entrance foyer.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlotte flinch at the click of the hammer cocking. It was followed a moment later by a faint scrape of metal as he eased the bolt open.

  Every muscle tensed, Wrexford waited for a moment, ear pressed to the blackened oak.

  More scrabbling at the outside latch, iron rasping against iron.

  Wrenching the door open, he pivoted, aiming in that instant of surprise to strike the intruder with the butt of his weapon.

  “Hell’s teeth,” swore Wrexford, dropping to his knees just in time to catch Raven as he stumbled over the threshold.

  CHAPTER 24

  The boy’s clothes were torn, his face bloodied.

  “I tried . . . I tried . . .”

  Repressing a cry, Charlotte dropped down beside Wrexford and tried to push him aside so she could reach for Raven.

  Evading her grasp, he rose and carried the boy into the main room.

  With a brusque swipe, Henning cleared a section of the table, scattering papers and several plates, which shattered on the floor. Sheffield hurriedly stripped off his coat and cushioned the rough planking.

  “I . . . I . . .” Raven tried to speak but he appeared dizzy, disoriented.

  “Hush, lad,” said the surgeon, taking charge as Wrexford gently lay the boy down on the makeshift blanket. “Just lie still.”

  Charlotte had lingered at the open door to look up and down the street. She turned, her face rigid with dread. Wrexford could guess why.

  “H-How badly is he injured?” she whispered.

  Henning didn’t answer right away. His callused hands worked with surprising gentleness as he removed Raven’s jacket and shirt, then carefully examined his head and neck.

  The boy’s pale, scrawny body looked so small and vulnerable against the dark wool. And what of his younger brother? Wrexford felt his jaw clench.

  “Hmmph.” Henning leaned down to listen to the boy’s chest, then made a quick check of his limbs. “Aside from a nasty lump on the back of his head, the lad seems to have suffered no real injury. He’s woozy, but he’ll sleep it off.”

  Charlotte expelled a sigh of relief, but a look of agony remained etched on her face. “I’ll take him upstairs and put him to bed.”

  “Let me help.” As Wrexford picked up the boy’s jacket from the floor, a folded piece of paper fell out. It was addressed to A. J. Quill in an elegant copperplate script. For an instant he was tempted to conceal it. But no—he knew she deserved better and wordlessly handed it over.

  Her fingers were cold as ice.

  She hesitated. He could almost feel the air shiver as fear tried to break her will.

  Paper crackled. The wax wafer snapped.

  The dastard, he noted, had chosen a blood-red color.

  Charlotte read over its contents and looked up. “He has Hawk,” she announced in a toneless voice. “He’ll release him if I inform the Runner that Lord Wrexford has been bribing me to withhold evidence that proves he’s the murderer.”

  As she paused to brush an errant curl of hair from her cheek, the earl took the note from her. “Our adversary gives Quill until nightfall to decide whether the boy lives or dies,” he said. “And goes on to provide the location of the weapon he used to murder Drummond.”

  “Clever,” conceded Henning. “Who better to convince Griffin that you’re guilty than the artist who’s known to have eyes and ears in every corner of London.”

  “Mrs. Sloane,” began Wrexford.

  “If you are going to explain that Lowell is going to kill Hawk whether I betray you to Griffin or not, I’ll save you the effort,” snapped Charlotte. “I’m not naïve.”

  “He intends to do just that,” agreed the earl calmly. “But I intend to stop him.”

  “Lowell is not as clever as we are,” added Sheffield with a show of bravado. However, he looked uncertain of how to go on.

  Wrexford felt all eyes slide to him. He looked over at Raven, whose thin face was fast purpling with bruises, and thought of the boy’s younger brother being used as a pawn in this devilish game.

  “Kit is right,” he said slowly. “Lowell is not as clever as we are.”

  * * *

  The burst of emotion had left Charlotte feeling utterly drained. She stood numbly as the earl barked out a series of orders.

  “Kit, return to my town house and find a way to have Tyler give you the remaining sample of Lowell’s explosive without Griffin knowing about it. Have him make up a package of these chemicals too.” He grabbed a pencil and paper from Charlotte’s desk and scribbled a list.

  She couldn’t seem to make her limbs move. A sense of helplessness had taken hold of her. Even the mere act of breathing was difficult.

  “The Runner may try to have someone follow you,” Wrexford adde
d. “So it would be best if you meet up with Henning, who’s more experienced in how to lose someone in the stews.” To Henning, he added, “Rendezvous with Kit in Bloomsbury Square. Use the maze of alleyways around the Foundlings Hospital to shake off any surveillance, then bring the chemicals here as quickly as possible.”

  “What for?” asked the surgeon.

  “They might come in handy,” replied Wrexford. “It’s always wise to meet an enemy armed with equal firepower. And in this case, surprise may add an advantage.”

  “What about me?” demanded Sheffield. “I’ll be damned if I let you fight this battle without me.”

  The earl hesitated. “Go to White’s after you leave Henning and wait for an hour, then slip out one of the back entrances you use to avoid creditors. Make your way back here carefully—but I swear, I’ll cut off your bollocks if Bow Street shows up right behind you to disrupt our plans.”

  “How are you—” began Sheffield.

  “Go!” commanded the earl.

  As his two friends hurried off, he turned to Charlotte. “Mrs. Sloane.”

  His sharp tone snapped whatever force was holding her in thrall. She started for Raven, but he caught her arm, none too gently. “Things will likely get worse. You can’t afford to surrender to fear.”

  The momentary pain set a welcome frisson of angry heat pulsing through her blood. Better fire than ice. “I don’t frighten easily, Lord Wrexford.” Would to God that remained true. “And I’ve never shied away from a fight.”

  “Good.” He released her. “Ready the bed. I’ll carry the lad upstairs.”

  Once Raven was settled under the covers, Charlotte drew a chair to the bedside and took hold of the boy’s hand. He had lapsed into a fitful doze, his breathing shallow but regular.

  “Don’t fret. He’ll be fine.” To her surprise, the earl took a seat on the edge of the thin mattress and stretched out his legs. “Lads his age are shockingly resilient. Bumps and bruises are a badge of honor. Blood or a broken limb is even better.”

  “You speak from experience?”

  “Unlike Athena, I did not step fully formed and wearing a set of battle armor from Zeus’s forehead,” he replied dryly.

  Charlotte smoothed a tangle of matted hair from Raven’s brow. How was it that the lads and dirt were such kindred souls? She tried to keep them tidy.

  She tried to keep them safe.

  Wrexford was looking around the small room, and for a moment she was embarrassed that he was privy to the humble state of her most intimate space. A simple dressing table, a battered chest of drawers, a rag rug, rather the worse for wear. But she quickly pushed aside such thoughts. There was no place for pride between them. All that mattered was Hawk.

  “How are we going to find Lowell’s lair?” she asked softly.

  His gaze swung back to her. “By thinking very carefully about the tiny clues that will lead us to his door.” He shifted slightly, the wool of his trousers whispering over the thick-spun cotton bedcovering. “You are very good at details, Mrs. Sloane. You notice things other people miss.”

  A burble of panic rose in her throat. “Yes, I am good but I am not infallible, sir! Do you think I haven’t been wracking my brain for an answer to your question? I’ve tried, and I can’t recall anything that might hint at where Anthony had been working.”

  His expression remained unruffled, which helped calm her own nerves. “Perhaps you are thinking too hard. Let’s start with some basics. Was there mud on his boots?”

  “Yes, but that was not unusual.” She made a face. “It’s impossible to avoid it in this neighborhood. Just look at your own.”

  He contemplated his feet for several moments. “What color mud? Was it black, brown, red, clay?”

  Charlotte saw his point, which only made her feel more miserable. “I . . . I can’t remember.”

  “Yes, you can. Think harder, Mrs. Sloane.”

  “You have to understand, I was distracted by Anthony’s suffering in a way that is hard to define. I was not looking at him in the same way as I do at other people.”

  “I see.” Wrexford looked thoughtful. “You mean to say love painted him in a unique hue?”

  “I didn’t . . .” God Almighty, how to answer? She was not about to bare her soul to him. “It’s not that simple.”

  He gave a wry laugh. “It is a universally acknowledged truth that Love is never simple. Nor easy.”

  Glib phrases, which glided smoothly from his tongue. And yet she couldn’t help but wonder if he spoke from experience.

  Raven stirred, drawing her attention, but his eyes remained closed. She started to turn back to the earl when a sudden flash of memory froze her in place.

  “Red,” she whispered. “The mud had a distinct reddish cast to it, and was flecked with bits of broken brick.”

  Wrexford edged forward on the bed. “A warehouse area.” He thought for a moment. “I wonder what sort of goods would be familiar to Canaday? He had an expertise in geology and the history of mining in Cornwall.”

  “Tin,” said Charlotte. “Cornwall is known for tin.”

  “Which is used to produce pewter,” he mused.

  “Blossom Lane off White Lion Yard is an area that caters to cheap kitchenware and tavern supplies,” offered Charlotte.

  “It is a start. When Henning returns, he and I shall pay a visit—”

  “N-Not B-Blossom Lane, m’lady.”

  Charlotte nearly wept in relief at hearing the boy’s voice.

  “Farther south, in Artillery Lane,” croaked Raven as he struggled to sit up. “T-That’s where Mr. Sloane went.”

  Wrexford helped him settle against the pillows. “Are you sure, lad?”

  “Aye.” Raven shot a guilty look at Charlotte. “I . . . I couldn’t help being curious. He was going out more and more, so . . .”

  “So you followed him,” said Wrexford.

  The boy nodded. “It weren’t hard. He never bothered te keep a rum eye on his surroundings, even though I kept telling him te be more watchful.”

  As did I, thought Charlotte.

  “It seemed an argy-bargy sort of place for him te be visiting, so I sneaked in after him. There was a big room and lots of paints and rolls of canvas. Mr. Sloane worked in there.”

  Raven paused and swallowed hard. “But there was also a dark stairwell past the workrooms, and I heard voices comin’ up from the cellar. So I scarpered down te have a look, but the door was closed, and I didn’t like the stink. It smelled like something right nasty was burning.”

  “What else?” pressed Wrexford.

  Charlotte, too, felt the boy was holding something back. “We won’t be angry, sweeting. We just need to know.”

  Remorse shadowed his face but he nodded. “I went back the next night—just te see what was down there. I shimmied through a back window on the main floor, but the cellar door had a big, fancy lock and I didn’t want to diddle with it.”

  He ducked his head in contrition. “I know I shudda told you, but Mr. Sloane was acting so spooked. I-I didn’t think it were right to tattle on him. Then, after he died, I didn’t want te upset you. It just seemed better te let the dead rest.”

  “It’s all right,” assured Charlotte. “I understand.”

  Raven didn’t appear reassured. “I’m sorry.”

  “You made the right choice, lad,” said Wrexford softly. “You did no harm in keeping things to yourself at the time. But it’s very important you tell us everything you remember about the place now.”

  “It may help rescue Hawk,” added Charlotte.

  The boy’s eyes widened, betraying both hope and dread. “You think the scurvy bastard who nabbed Hawk is holding him there?”

  “There is a good chance of it,” said the earl. “Think very carefully, Weasel. Can you tell me exactly where I can find the building?”

  “We,” she corrected. “Where we can find the building.”

  “Right, we.” Raven sat up a little straighter. “Ain’t no way I’m gonn
a be left behind.”

  “Don’t say ain’t,” murmured Charlotte, even though grammar was the least of her worries.

  Raven played deaf to her chiding. “I can lead you straight there blindfolded, sir. I know the stews better’n the back of my own hand.”

  Charlotte did not care to speculate on what substance had left the greasy smear on his upturned knuckles. “You need to stay here and rest.”

  A string of oaths followed.

  “Let the lad come,” said Wrexford.

  Sighing, Charlotte surrendered without further argument. Short of locking Raven in Newgate Prison, she knew there was no way to keep him from the fray.

  The boy began to stammer his thanks, but the earl silenced him with a brusque wave. “Stubble the sentimental claptrap, Weasel. We need to draw up a plan of attack.”

  He shot her a look that promised she wasn’t going to like what was coming next. “It’s clear that Lowell has spies everywhere, so we are going to have to be very careful in how we make a preliminary reconnaissance of the area around the warehouse. I think there’s only one course of action that has a chance of going undetected.”

  She uttered one of Raven’s highly unladylike oaths under her breath.

  If Wrexford heard her, he pretended not to. “Can you muster a band of your fellow street urchins, lad? You must choose only those who are clever and resourceful. Hawk’s life may depend on it.”

  Raven’s thin face screwed in thought. “Skinny, One-Eyed Harry, and Alice the Eel Girl,” he said slowly. “And Pudge and Sally Roundheels. They won’t let us down.”

  “Good,” replied the earl. “We need to gather them as quickly as possible. But don’t have them come here,” said Wrexford. “Pick an out-of-the-way spot where they are well hidden from the street.”

  The boy nodded in understanding. “Skinny will help.”

  “Then let us go find him.” Wrexford rose and turned to her as Raven scrambled out of bed and hurried down the stairs to find his shirt and jacket. “I know you don’t approve. But guttersnipes have sharp eyes and draw little attention. And for us, the element of surprise is crucial. Lowell cannot have any inkling that we are coming.” He didn’t have to explain why.