Page 4 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)

R aven darted a look over the stone parapet of the outer walkway ringing the warehouse roof and then ducked back down into the shadows. “We’ll need to rig Peregrine’s new ratcheting winch and a length of rope,” he whispered. “But we need to be quiet about it so we don’t wake the rascal.”

Their strategy had paid off. Though finding a runaway monkey in a city the size of London was perhaps even more daunting than searching for a needle in a haystack, Raven had come up with a plan.

Based on the location of the Tower Menagerie and the Prince Regent’s residence, and the fact that the monkey had arrived at the East India docks, he had come up with an educated guess that the animal would stay near the river and then made clever use of their network of urchin friends.

While Peregrine had waited for Charlotte to finish her drawing, he and Hawk had set up a surveillance system to funnel any information on sightings of the monkey to several key checkpoints.

One tip-off had led them east, another tip-off had turned them south … and lo and behold, a third had sent them climbing to the top of a riverside trading company, where they had spotted the monkey sleeping atop the entrance portico of the loading bay in a secluded courtyard space.

“Who has the fruit?” added Raven, as he began unfolding the large square of fish net that he had found in the attic.

“Oiy.” Hawk held up a burlap bag with several overripe apples that McClellan had unearthed in the back of the pantry.

Peregrine sniffed the air and grinned. “Sweet!”

“I daresay the monkey will be hungry when it awakes.” Raven threaded a rope through the center of the netting and tied a fist-sized knot at the end of it.

“Explain to me again what you have in mind,” said Peregrine.

Raven gestured for his brother to hand him the bag.

He withdrew one of the squishy fruits and cut it into quarters with the knife he carried in his boot, then tucked the pieces in his coat pocket before carefully tying the bag’s drawstrings to the rope just above the knot.

“Once you two lower me close to the monkey, I’m going to toss some pieces of the apple to wake it.

Then I’ll let down the rope holding the bag—”

“What about the netting?” demanded Hawk.

His brother responded with an evil grin.

“I’ll be holding the netting, which as you see has the rope threaded through its center, and once the monkey begins fiddling with the bag, I’ll let it drop.

” He gave it a jiggle. “Mac sewed lead fishing weights around the perimeter for me, so it will drop like a stone and entangle the monkey before it can flee.”

“Ingenious,” said Peregrine with an admiring nod.

“Assuming it all works as planned,” replied Raven dryly. He buckled a heavy belt around his middle and centered the large iron ring that the thick length of leather was holding in place. “Is the winch ready?”

“Oiy.” Peregrine, who had learned a great deal about engineering from his late uncle, double-checked the apparatus that he had built to lower Raven down from the roof and then fastened the brass clip that was tied to one end of the pulley rope to the ring. “Ready?”

With catlike stealth, Raven climbed over a parapet and noiselessly dropped down several feet until the gears of the rachet clicked softly into place.

After a downward glance, he signaled for Peregrine and Hawk to begin slowly lowering him toward the sleeping monkey.

The breeze gusted as it squeezed through the gaps between the buildings, but Raven adjusted his weight to keep his descent steady.

He passed by a darkened window of the top story, and then one on the story below it.

On catching a glimmer of light reflecting off his boots, Raven realized that the room he was about to pass was illuminated from within.

Mouthing a word he was strictly forbidden to say aloud in front of Wrexford and Charlotte, he looked up and gave a quick wave for them to hurry in lowering him through the glow.

His descent quickened—

And then snapped to a halt.

Giving thanks for his dark clothing and soot-streaked face, Raven held himself very still. He was hanging uncomfortably close to the glass, but clouds had scudded over the moonlight, deepening the midnight gloom. With luck, he would go unnoticed.

He silently counted to ten … And then did it again.

The wick of the oil lamp on the table facing the window suddenly sparked, and its flame flared up for moment, illuminating a number of papers spread over the dark-grained mahogany.

Piles of banknotes, letters of credit issued by several of London’s leading banks, stacks of stock certificates, along with what looked to be pages of mathematical calculations …

Raven recognized the bank documents, as Sheffield had once explained to him how they were used extensively by international merchants because they were as good as money in many places around the world.

One simply presented them to the local agent representing the London bank in order to convert them into the local currency.

Sheffield had also explained stock certificates—

A movement deep in the shadows caught his eye. A gentleman—no, two gentlemen—entered the room. They were both well-dressed, though oddly enough, there seemed to be a length of crumpled silk tangled with some sort of silvery fur lying on the edge of the table.

They appeared to be engaged in serious conversation.

One of them consulted a pocket notebook while the other one began to shuffle through the papers, putting them into several stacks.

A moment later, they were joined by a third gentleman—a thick-set, florid-faced fellow with beady eyes, whose lace-trimmed cravat and cuffed coat with oversized brass buttons looked out of place in London.

The breeze had died away, and in the stillness of the space created by the buildings that surrounded the courtyard below, Raven was able to make out a few passing words.

Exchange … stock issues … coordinated positions … selling …

Business matters, decided Raven, who quickly returned his attention to his own predicament.

“ Goddamn. ”

Raven froze. Had he been spotted?

But no, Florid Face was speaking to the others. A moment later, another “goddamn” floated out into the night

What was delaying Peregrine and Hawk? He didn’t dare look up, for he feared that the slightest movement would alert the three men to his presence.

The rope gave a lurch, dropping him down several inches, and then jerked him upward.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered as the man with the notebook looked up with a frown.

Their gazes locked …

And Raven saw something far more ominous than mere surprise flash in the fellow’s obsidian eyes.

“Oiy, pull me up!” he shouted, abandoning thought of stealth. “And hurry!”

But Obsidian Eyes had already turned away and moved with pantherlike quickness back into the shadows.

“Sorry! The rachet gears have jammed!” called Peregrine.

“Haul me up by hand!” answered Raven, shifting the coiled rope and netting clutched in his arms. Obsidian Eyes was back and calmly checking the priming of a lethal-looking pistol.

“ Now ,” he added. “I may not have a chance to ask again!”

Obsidian Eyes thumbed back the weapon’s hammer to full cock and started to round the table …

The rope gave a mighty jerk, and Raven began to rise.

“Faster, faster!” urged Raven as the iron-framed window swung open with a rusty groan.

Looking up, Raven saw the top of the parapet was almost within reach. Shifting the bundle of netting and coiled rope, he twisted around and heaved it down at the snout of the pistol aimed at his chest, then turned and grabbed for the coping.

BANG!

The pistol shot was loud as thunder.

In the same instant, Raven felt a mighty wallop strike between his shoulder blades that rocketed him upward. His chin hit against stone …

And then everything went black.

The loud rap, rap of the brass knocker broke the midnight stillness that had settled over the townhouse.

Jarred back to the present moment—she had stayed up late in order to clean all her paint brushes, and her thoughts had drifted off to a recent art exhibit she had seen of J. M. W. Turner’s watercolors—Charlotte felt her heart clench.

The Weasels.

Tossing aside her rag, she fisted her hands in her skirts and hurried for the stairs. That a premonition of danger had been lurking in the shadows of her conscious thought added a sense of urgency.

Wrexford, who had also not yet retired for the night, was already in the foyer and unbolting the door. It swung open, revealing a gentleman impeccably dressed in a fancy overcoat and curly-brimmed beaver hat.

A rush of relief flooded through her as she saw it was not a watchman or Bow Street Runner. But who—

“Forgive me for intruding on you at this ungodly hour, milord.”

The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but Charlotte couldn’t place the gentleman.

“But I … I …” The rest of the fellow’s words seemed to stick in his throat.

“Do come in, Bethany, and allow me to pour you a brandy,” said Wrexford as he stepped aside and gestured for the gentleman to enter.

“Dear heavens, I am so sorry for disturbing you as well, Lady Wrexford,” added their visitor, on spotting Charlotte in the shadows.

“No need to apologize, Lord Bethany,” she replied. On hearing his name, she quickly remembered that he was secretary of the Royal Society. “As it happens, I was in a creative state of mind and ended up working late on one of my watercolors.”

“Ah, yes, as I recall, one of your wards is a budding botanical artist,” replied the secretary with an effort at politeness, though clearly his concerns were elsewhere.

“He is, sir. But please, I am aware this isn’t a social call. Allow me to escort you to the parlor.”

Bethany swallowed hard and gave a grateful nod. “Thank you, milady.”