Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

  Drawing a measured breath, he pressed an ear to one of the portals and listened for sounds of activity behind the age-dark oak.

  Nothing, save for an oppressive silence.

  Was the boy still alive? A pawn was often played for just one move, then carelessly sacrificed in order to move the game along. Wrexford forced himself to forget such thoughts. Distractions were dangerous.

  The latch yielded to the pressure of his palm, allowing him to slip into the stairwell. An odor of acid, sour and slightly metallic, hung heavy in the damp air. He could feel that the stairs were made of stone. How many there were was impossible to make out. The darkness was as viscous as India ink. Placing a guiding hand on the rock and mortar wall, he started downward, step by tentative step.

  He counted twelve treads before coming to a small landing. There the stairs reversed direction and continued to descend.

  A thin line of light was visible below. The fumes were growing stronger. Raven had said the laboratory was at the base of the stairs, and as Wrexford came closer, the faint glow from under the door showed a fancy lock fabricated from steel and brass, just as the boy had described.

  Pulling his pistol from his pocket, he noiselessly drew back the hammer and continued on to within a pace of the door.

  There were rustling sounds from the other side, punctuated by the muted click of glassware. But no voices.

  Which meant it was damnably impossible to know whether Hawk was being held prisoner there or in some other part of the basement.

  Reluctantly turning away, Wrexford began to retrace his steps, exploring along the wall for another access into the basement. Just before reaching the landing he found a small horizontal door, barely wide enough and tall enough for a man to shimmy through. The hinges swung smoothly in response to a testing tug. A hint of light danced deep within the narrow crawlspace. After a tiny hesitation, he once again pocketed the pistol and slipped inside.

  Inching along over splintered floorboards that clawed at his clothing, the earl gingerly traversed a short, tight passageway that opened up to a catwalk of exposed wooden beams. A sconce holding a single candle hung on the wall below him, casting just enough fluttery light for him to make out the bare bones of his surroundings. From his vantage point, he saw it was a long drop down to the floor, where scattered stacks of large crates indicated that this, too, was another storage area, one where heavy goods were kept. Just ahead, a heavy iron pulley was bolted to one of the beams, a heavy rope and hook still dangling down into the murky shadows.

  Wrexford slithered out onto the narrow rough-cut timber, intent on reaching the rope, when suddenly a loud clang echoed off the walls of the cavernous space. He froze as a second door was thrown open and a beam of skittery light cut through the gloom. Footsteps sounded and a figure appeared. The slim silhouette, the well-tailored clothes, the artfully tousled curls—Lowell was instantly identifiable as he crossed to a tall column of crates near the far wall.

  The earl held his breath, willing the man not to look upward.

  After setting his lantern down, Lowell turned the wick up. A flame hissed to life, throwing a circle of weak illumination over the planked floor. His movements were not quite as casually elegant as his attire. They betrayed a taut nervousness as he clumsily adjusted the angle of the light.

  The beam wavered, and then picked out a chair. Hawk was tied to it, the high slatted back and coiling of rope making him look pitifully small.

  Wrexford felt a surge of outrage.

  The boy’s face was purpled with bruises and one eye was nearly swollen shut.

  “It’s almost dark. You had better pray that Mrs. Sloane turns the Earl of Wrexford over to the authorities. Else you are going to die.”

  Hawk stared at him in defiant silence.

  The earl mouthed a silent curse. He couldn’t reach for his weapon without risking that Lowell would spot him.

  “Actually, you’re going to die whatever she does.”

  Hawk had the temerity to laugh. “Ye daft bastard—ye think she ain’t smart enough te know that? She won’t squibble on His Nibs. He’ll come find ye, and I won’t be the only one wiv the Devil’s pitchfork poking up my arse.”

  His face mottling with fury, Lowell cocked a fist and hit the boy with a hard punch that landed flush on the jaw.

  Hawk’s head snapped back and blood spurted from his lip. It took a moment for him to shake off the shock, and then . . .

  Wrexford watched as Hawk inhaled deeply through his nose and then spit out a broken tooth with an audible whoosh. The tiny missile shot through the air with pinpoint accuracy and hit his tormentor smack in the eye.

  Bloody hell—the little imp possessed more backbone than most men.

  Lowell cried out in pain and slapped out another blow. “I swear, I shall beat you until you scream for mercy.”

  “Hit as hard as ye like. Ye ain’t never gonna make me cry.”

  Lowell gave a nasty laugh. “You worthless little piece of gutter scum. Much as I’d enjoy killing you now, I’d rather wait and make that she-bitch watch me cut your throat while she begs for your life. Oh, you’ll cry then—in fact, you’ll squeal like a stuck pig for I’ll take care to do it slowly.”

  Hawk blinked as the man taunted him with a series of high-pitched snorting sounds.

  “Enjoy your last night alive, brat,” finished Lowell, finally tiring of tormenting the boy. Taking up the lantern, he turned on his heel and stalked off.

  Wrexford waited until the door clanged shut, then quickly wriggled his way to the rope and pulley.

  CHAPTER 26

  Charlotte tried to keep her mind occupied as she sat hunched in the lee of the outside stairwell, refusing to let herself stare at the building across the street. Fog was starting to ghost through the streets, quicksilver puffs of vapor riding a chill breeze that seemed to bite to the bone. Hugging her arms to her chest, she made herself think about how she would draw Lowell in his laboratory. The imagery offered some sensational elements—a deadly explosive, a demented genius whose family ranked as one of the leaders of the aristocracy.

  The public would lap it up.

  Yes, on paper it was oh so titillating, an artistic and intellectual challenge to use her skill with word and image to fan emotions. But as flesh-and-blood reality, the terror was all too palpable. All too personal. She could taste its bile at the back of her throat, she could feel its icy fingers squeezing the breath from her lungs....

  Raven shifted. He was slumped against her shoulder, and while she wanted to believe he was dozing, she could sense that his body was coiled tighter than an overwound watch spring.

  Tick, tick. It felt like they had been there for hours. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to sneak a quick glance.

  “Any sign of them?” The boy was instantly alert.

  “No.” All sorts of hideous reasons sprang to mind. The curse of a colorful imagination. She looked away from the dark shape looming up from the mist and drew him a little closer. “We must be patient.”

  * * *

  Grasping both lengths of the rope, Wrexford slowly lowered himself down from the beams. He dared not call out a warning for Hawk to stay silent, but no sound came from the shadowed chair. Thinking of the brutal beating he had just witnessed, he feared the boy might be unconscious—or worse.

  However, as he darted between the crates, a small voice quickly put his worries to rest.

  “Cor, that was a wery neat trick, m’lord—just like a spider spinnin’ down from its web!” Hawk’s one good eye was widened in admiration. “It wuz awfully brave of ye te try it.”

  The boy thought him brave? God Almighty.

  “Not as brave as taking a punch to the mouth from a bastard four times your size.” The earl took a brief moment to gently blot the blood from the boy’s face.

  “It didn’t hurt wery much,” lisped Hawk. “The sweetmeat vendor at C’vent Garden hits much harder wid his fives. The thrashing he gave me when I filched some sugarplums wuz a lot worse.” />
  “Shhh, don’t try to talk, lad. I’ll have you free in a tick.” Wrexford reached for the knife in his boot.

  Bloody hell.

  He stared at the hopelessly knotted tangle of rope around the boy and cursed himself for a clumsy fool. The blade must have fallen out in the crawlspace.

  Hawk was staring, too. “I fink we need a knife.”

  Or an avenging angel with a grand sword to smite through the bonds.

  “Aye, lad, but I was damnable gudgeon and dropped mine—”

  “I got the one ye gave me.” The boy flashed a lopsided smile. “I did what ye told me and hid it wery carefully in my boot.”

  A quick tug, a quick shake, and the stag-handled knife plopped into his palm. Exhaling a pent-up breath, Wrexford cut through the rope. “Well done, lad. Can you stand?”

  Hawk rose, and though a little unsteady on his feet, he managed to stay upright. Wrexford took a moment to chafe the blood back into the boy’s limbs as he considered his next step. The basement’s layout presented a dilemma. Getting the boy to safety meant it couldn’t be done without taking the chance that Lowell would escape with his devilish concoction.

  A ripple of air stirred through the space. The candle flame quivered, and the overhead pulley rattled.

  Or could it?

  It was risky. Damnably risky.

  He swept the boy up in his arms. “What say you, Weasel? Can you be strong and brave for just a little while longer?”

  Hawk grinned, showing the gap in his teeth. “Oiy.”

  “Good lad.” Wrexford hurried to the dangling rope and lading hook. Grabbing the curved piece of iron, he cut a small slash in Hawk’s breeches and worked it through the fabric. “Listen carefully. I’ll pull you up to the rafters. Crawl across the center beam and you’ll find a passageway. It will bring you to a set of stairs. . . .” He quickly explained how to exit the building. “Mrs. Sloane and your brother are waiting directly across the street in a stairwell. I want you to fly like a falcon, and don’t stop for anything until you’re in m’lady’s arms. Can you do that?”

  “Oiy.”

  There was no time for second guessing. “Then up you go.”

  * * *

  Mist swirled in the sunken stairwell. Charlotte was so stiff from the chill dampness that it hurt to wriggle her toes. Stifling a yawn, Raven flexed his shoulders and crawled up to the top step for a peek at the surroundings.

  “Trouble,” he grumbled. “His Nibs must have run into trouble, else he’d be here by now.”

  “Patience,” counseled Charlotte, though she, too, was aching to know what was happening inside the building.

  “Maybe I ought te have a look around.”

  “Absolutely not.” She understood the urge, but Wrexford had trusted them to keep their word. A promise. Like mist, it had no corporeal substance. Try to grab hold of it, and poof—one’s fingers caught nothing but a faint tickling sensation against the skin. And yet she felt it a bond of honor that ought not be broken.

  “Come down from there,” she added. “We ought not risk being spotted.”

  “No, wait—I think I see something,” said Raven

  “Don’t gammon me,” warned Charlotte.

  “There, between the buildings. Someone’s moving!”

  She joined him on the top step. But her eyes seemed intent on playing tricks. The shadows all started to sway in time to the rapid-fire beating of her heart.

  Charlotte tried to draw a steadying breath.

  “There!” repeated Raven and rose to his knees.

  She grabbed hold of his coat to hold him back.

  At that instant, a small figure burst out from the muddled darkness of the passageway, legs pumping, arms flailing as if a bat from hell was snapping at his coattails. Charlotte heard a voice rise above the thudding footsteps. And then she, too, was scrambling out to the edge of the street.

  “M’lady, m’lady!”

  Catching hold of Hawk, she gathered him in a crushing hug, tears mingling with an inarticulate bubbling of joy as she pulled him and his brother back into the shelter of the stairwell.

  “Thank God,” she murmured, brushing back his tangled hair to press a kiss to his brow.

  Raven fixed Hawk with a critical squint that couldn’t quite hide his smile. “You look disgusting.”

  “I lost a toof,” announced Hawk proudly. “But that bastard who snatched me is gonna look much worse. Lord Wrexford was spitting fire and threatening te chop off his bollocks.”

  Charlotte shrugged out of her coat and wrapped it around Hawk. The sight of the boy’s bruised face and injured eye had her hoping the earl would carry out his threat. What sort of man was monster enough to torture children?

  A very dangerous one. And Wrexford was now facing off against him, mano a mano.

  She darted a glance at the darkened building, then pulled both boys close and offered up a silent prayer.

  * * *

  Wrexford pushed the chair and severed rope deeper into the shadows and paused to reprime his weapon. Anger was still boiling through his blood. Judging that surprise was enough of an advantage, he decided to dispense with any elaborate subterfuge and simply walk straight into the devil’s den.

  He rather hoped Lowell would put up a fight. The man had a number of sins for which to atone.

  Pistol at the ready, Wrexford set his shoulder to the iron-banded door of the storage area and pushed it open. The second door loomed ahead, bracketed by wall sconces that cast flickers of dark and light over the wood and metal. He crossed quickly through the short passageway and took hold of the latch.

  With a well-oiled snick, a pistol hammer cocked.

  Not his own.

  He turned slowly.

  “Tsk, tsk, Lord Wrexford. As a man of science, you should know enough about mathematics to understand that a complex equation always has a number of variables. You should have considered that there would be more than one entry and exit point to my laboratory.” Hinges creaked. “Kindly drop your weapon.”

  Lowell sounded smug, and with good reason. Wrexford had let anger get the better of him, and had rushed ahead without thinking. He mustn’t let it happen again.

  “The thought had occurred to me,” he replied, calmly obeying the order. “I did take into account the main one by the stairs and this one. It was apparently a mistake to assume there weren’t three.”

  “You’ve made a number of mistakes.” Lowell stepped out from the narrow door set within a recessed archway and came closer. The snout of the pistol was aimed at his forehead.

  Improvise. He could hear Charlotte’s recent comment echoing in his head.

  “Oh, come, give me some credit. I added up a great many complex sums correctly.”

  “True.” Lowell expelled a mournful sigh. “Which is why you must die. A pity. You, of all the members of the Royal Institution, possess a modicum of creative thinking.”

  “High praise, indeed,” said Wrexford dryly. Keep the man talking—the boy needed more time to make his way to safety.

  “Humor me before putting a period to my existence,” he went on. “I’ve figured out most of your plan, but several pieces of the puzzle still elude me. What drew you and Holworthy together in the first place? I’ve deduced that his interests lay in alchemy, while yours are decidedly more practical.”

  “Far more practical,” agreed Lowell. “Holworthy was seeking eternal life.” A curt laugh. “While I merely wish to enjoy my allotted time here on earth as a very wealthy man.”

  “The philosopher’s stone,” murmured the earl.

  “Correct. The right reverend was obsessed with the idea that the medieval alchemists had discovered the secret of immortality. He had contrived to steal a number of very rare books and manuscripts on the subject from church and university archives.”

  “Including works by Newton, Boyle, and Philalethes,” he interjected.

  “Yes, hidden among all the claptrap he had collected was some priceless knowledge—that is to say
, priceless scientific knowledge. The men you mentioned possessed brilliant minds, and had made discoveries that I sensed would help me reach my own goal.”

  “How did you learn about Holworthy’s endeavor?” prodded Wrexford.

  “One night, when I was making the rounds of the Institution laboratories—my position as superintendent made it easy to steal the chemicals I needed for my own experiments—I overheard a clandestine meeting between Holworthy and Canaday. The reverend asked for his help in concocting the philosopher’s stone, claiming he had priceless manuscripts from which a man of science could decipher the formula.”

  Drummond had been right, thought Wrexford. At night, the Institution’s corridors had been slithering with serpents intent on no good. Unfortunately, he himself had been one of them.

  “The baron refused, calling it nonsense,” continued Lowell. “But as it happens, I was searching for rare books that related to my own research. So I approached Holworthy—masked, as I couldn’t afford to have him know my real identity. Unfortunately, he noticed my signet ring.”

  “Golden One,” said the earl. “So you had to kill him.”

  “As soon as he brought me the book I needed, he had outlived his usefulness.”

  “I assume you met with him several times in Canaday’s laboratory. And at some point you realized Drummond had overheard one of your conversations.”

  Lowell smiled. “I knew Drummond had a large amount of mercury, and I happened to see his notes when I entered his laboratory to steal it. He was a filthy sneak, and had also overheard me meeting with an agent from Paris.” A smirk pulled at Lowell’s lips. “In which we discussed my life-altering chemical compound.”

  “An enhanced version of mercury fulminate,” said Wrexford. “I assume they offered you a king’s ransom for the formula.”