Page 47 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)

“D amnation.” Given that he was alone in his workroom, Wrexford allowed himself to give verbal vent to his growing frustration.

The rest of the household seemed to be making progress with their endeavors.

Over the last week, Eddy had continued to design more challenges for her pigeons within Hyde Park’s sprawling acreage, ending with a jaunt into the adjoining Kensington Gardens, which confirmed that the birds were now full-fledged travelers …

Raven slipped away each day to work as a messenger boy at the Stock Exchange, delivering sale slips to Ricardo, along with a variety of other information that he gleaned from carefully observing what was happening on the floor …

And Charlotte’s drawings were helping to keep London calm, as she designed her commentaries to quash rumors that might set off panic.

“While I seem to be doing naught but spinning in circles,” the earl added under his breath. Le Loup was made of flesh and blood, not some sulphurous vapor from Hell. And yet he had made no headway in locating him.

A brusque cough interrupted his brooding.

“Where is everybody?” growled Henning as he entered the room.

“Charlotte has taken Eddy—my sister prefers to be called Eddy, rather than Eddylina—to take tea with Alison—”

“So the existence of a sister wasn’t a puerile prank created by the Weasels?” said the surgeon.

“No, she’s quite real.” Despite his anxieties, Wrexford found himself smiling. “And quite wonderful.” The smile stretched wider. “You’ll like her. She’s full of piss and vinegar.”

“She had better be to have any hope of keeping up with the three Weasels.”

“Ha! In truth, I think they are all a bit in awe of her. She has already coaxed Lucifer into letting her ride him.”

“Good Lord, you must be mad as a hatter to let her anywhere near that big black devil,” muttered the surgeon.

“Trust me, Eddy could outride a Death’s Head Hussar.”

Henning let out a rusty laugh. “Is there anyone normal in this family?”

“Heaven forfend,” drawled the earl. “They wouldn’t last long.”

“Well, I look forward to meeting the lassie.” The surgeon ran a hand along his unshaven jaw. “But my visit today is not a social call. I received your note asking me to keep my ears open for any whispers concerning a top operative of Napoleon sent here to foment chaos.”

Wrexford held his breath, waiting for Henning to continue.

“A number of our veteran soldiers—poor fellows dressed in rags and weak with hunger who can’t find work here at home—were among the sick I’ve been helping to tend this past fortnight. But despite their shameful treatment from our government, they are still loyal to the bone.”

Henning’s radical views on the need for social change were no secret to Wrexford. In fact, he agreed with them. “You know my sentiments on pensions for our veterans. But right now, a more pressing concern is—

“Yes, yes—French operatives fomenting trouble here in London.” Henning turned slightly, the slanting rays of sunlight accentuating the dark hollows beneath his bloodshot eyes.

His crusty exterior fooled most people, but in truth, the surgeon cared deeply about the plight of the poor, and seeing their suffering took its toll.

“I was able to treat a veteran I’ve helped in the past during this recent outbreak, and thankfully he survived.

He knows that I’m always interested in hearing about any trouble brewing, and he returned to the clinic this morning and told me about overhearing a conversation between two Frenchmen in a ramshackle tavern last night. ”

Henning made a face. “By a stroke of luck, the fellow speaks passable French, as he was assigned to guarding prisoners during Wellington’s march through the Peninsula.

The gist of the conversation was that a varlet named Le Loup is meeting with an important government informant tonight to pass over a down payment for some sort of service.

” He blew out a sigh. “And before you ask what that service is, it wasn’t mentioned. ”

“Where is the rendezvous?” asked Wrexford quickly. “And when?”

“At the Chapel of King Edward the Confessor within Westminster Abbey. And the rendezvous is for an hour before midnight.”

“Westminster Abbey,” repeated the earl. “Good Lord—why there?”

Henning lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug. “Dunno, laddie. You’re the sleuth.” A sigh. “Just do me a favor. Don’t send me any dead bodies. I’ve seen quite enough of them over the last month.”

“Absolutely not.” Charlotte set her jaw and squared her shoulders, defying him to argue.

“It may be the only chance we have to catch him—” he began.

“So be it,” she cut in. “I won’t allow you to go after a ruthless killer and his accomplice on your own. It’s too reckless, and you know it.”

“I can’t ask Kit,” he explained. “He’s not experienced in this sort of lethal confrontation.”

“Ha! You are digging yourself into an even deeper hole,” she pointed out.

“What I meant was—”

“I know damn well what you meant,” retorted Charlotte.

“We can’t pass up the opportunity to catch him,” said Wrexford, appealing to her sense of Right and Wrong. “He’s too dire a threat to our country. And we can’t reach out to Grentham’s operatives. It’s possible the traitor is one of them.”

Charlotte pressed her lips together.

Was it egregiously selfish of her to think of her family first?

Choices, choices …

“What about von Münch?” she ventured. “He’s experienced in clandestine missions, and we know that he’s a damnably good shot.”

“I’m not reckless, my love. I actually thought of that,” he admitted. “But I don’t know how to reach him.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing he entrusted that information to me.” Charlotte glanced at the clock. “There’s still time for Hawk and Peregrine to summon him and then to make a quick surveillance of the Abbey and note whether there are any guards stationed on the grounds.”

The tide was nearly at its lowest ebb, the sickly sweet scents of decay wafting up from the mudflats exposed by the receding waters.

Wrexford cocked an ear. On hearing no sounds of movement close by, he signaled von Münch to follow him into the Abbey garden. Hunched low, they crept past the ancient stone fountain and hurried into the shadows flitting along the base of the outer walls.

“This way,” whispered the earl, gesturing to the left.

“Hawk and Peregrine have reported that no guards are in place. Still, I think it unwise to attempt going in by the main entrance at the North Transept. There’s another side door at the west end of the nave.

However, that, too, is awfully exposed. It’s best for us to go in through a small side door leading into the St. Nicholas Chapel.

That will have us right next to the Chapel of King Edward the Confessor. ”

“I’m impressed that you know the Abbey by heart,” said his companion with a hint of amusement as they rounded a turn and edged into a recess in the wall. “I wouldn’t have guessed you to be a religious fellow.”

“Let’s just say I’m more interested in reading architectural plans than scriptures.”

Biting back a chuckle, von Münch gave a glance at the age-dark oak door. “Dare I hope you have the key?”

“Not necessary,” replied Wrexford. He had already pulled several lock picks out of his boot and was surveying the keyhole. “This lock is child’s play,” he murmured. “It hasn’t been changed in centuries. This won’t …”—a jiggle, and then a snick —“take more than a moment.”

Taking hold of the latch, the earl nudged the door open, wincing slightly at the rusty groan of the hinges, and then beckoned for von Münch to dart inside.

Moonlight trickled through the tall leaded-glass windows, casting a faint glow over the carved stone and wood.

“There’s a massive stone screen separating the shrine and the chapel from the main altar and sanctuary. We can take cover there.” He drew the two pistols hidden in his coat pockets. “And wait.”

A sepulchral silence settled over the Abbey, the centuries-old woodwork and decorative carvings standing as solemn sentinels for the tombs of Britain’s monarchs.

“I understand that Queen Elizabeth’s resting place is quite impressive,” mused von Münch in a low whisper after a number of minutes had passed. “As a historian, I would enjoy doing a bit of exploring—”

“Shhh,” warned. Wrexford. He might have missed the sound if he hadn’t been on full alert. Someone was moving with a predator’s light-footed stealth down the north side of the nave.

Closer and closer …

A dark-on-dark figure entered the chapel and took up a position by the shrine in the center of the space. Several minutes passed, and then another figure approached.

“You’re late,” announced the man who had been waiting. The earl immediately recognized Le Loup’s distinctive drawl.

“I took a roundabout route through St. James’s Park to make sure I wasn’t followed.” The answering voice was muffled, as if by some sort of face covering. Wrexford gritted his teeth in frustration. It sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t identify it.

“Given my position, I need to be even more careful than you do.”

Le Loup ignored the comment and got right down to business. “Has it arrived?”

“It has,” answered Muffled Voice. “No need to worry. All is going exactly according to plan.” He countered with his own question. “Have you brought the first payment?”

Wrexford nudged von Münch and signaled that the moment had come to apprehend the conspirators while their attention was elsewhere. Rising from his crouch, he edged over to the opening in the stone screen and cut to the left as he stepped into the chapel while von Münch slid to the right.

“Drop the packet,” ordered the earl, taking a bead on both men with his weapons. “And put your hands up.”

The weak light fluttered, and then for an instant the chapel went black as a cloud passed over the moon …

Just long enough for all hell to break loose.

Le Loup and his companion darted into the arched openings of the massive shrine to King Edward that sat in the center of the chapel. A shot rang out from their hiding place, forcing Wrexford to dive for cover behind one of the freestanding tombs set along the outer wall.

Rising to a crouch, he ventured a look—only to see a figure slip out from the back openings of the shrine and race through the archway into the Ambulatory.

“Go after him!” he shouted to von Münch, who had taken cover behind a tomb by the far wall. Though he had only caught a fleeting look at the silhouette, he knew it wasn’t Le Loup.

“Get ready to answer for your sins,” he called to the Frenchman as von Münch shot off in pursuit of Muffled Voice. “One of which includes desecrating a priceless piece of British history.” Le Loup’s bullet had clipped off the bronze nose of Edward III’s tomb effigy.

A mocking laugh. “You value all the wrong things, Wrexford. It makes you weak. And vulnerable.”

“We’ll see.” The earl gauged the distance to the next freestanding tomb, which would give him an angle to see into the shrine.

He put one of his pistols back in his coat pocket and drew the lock picks out of his boot.

Setting his stance, he hurled them across the room and sprinted for cover.

The clang of metal was just enough of a distraction that Le Loup’s second shot missed by a hair.

“I wonder, why did you bother to bring powder and shot when this wasn’t supposed to turn into a battle?” called Wrexford. “Surrender now, and I promise that I won’t put a bullet through your brain.”

No answer.

Wrexford looked around to judge his options. He discerned a shadowy movement within the shrine, so a shot would likely wound the Frenchman. Or he could keep Le Loup trapped in his hidey-hole until von Münch returned—

Snick, snick.

Before Wrexford could react to the sound of flint striking steel, a barrage of lighted candles came flying out of the shrine’s interior. Ducking low, he rolled away from the flames—his coat lapel had caught fire, costing him precious seconds before he was able to scramble to his feet.

Le Loup was off and running.

For a heartbeat, the Frenchman was silhouetted against the arched windows of ancient leaded glass …

Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

Through the smoke and shadows he saw a section of the leaded window explode.

Damn. The Wolf appeared to have a catlike nine lives.

Wrexford set off in pursuit, but his quarry had too much of a lead. The nave was dark, and the columns cast too many confusing shadows …

The sound of Le Loup’s steps was fast receding and in the next moment was gone.

“Bloody, bloody hell.” Wrexford slapped out the last sparks on the singed wool of his lapel. The rest of the flames had fizzled out, unable to gain purchase on the stone floor.

“Wrexford!”

He turned as von Münch skidded to a halt on the smooth stone tiles. “Sorry, the fellow darted though one of side chapels and disappeared as if into thin air.”

“I imagine there are a number of hidden passageways leading out of here,” he replied. “Le Loup escaped as well.” He clenched his spent pistol and cursed himself again for missing the poxy bas tard. “So we’ve nothing to show for our efforts.”

“Not true, we gained two clues. The traitor is someone in a high position. And he’s selling something of vital importance to the French,” said von Münch. “We’re getting closer—”

“Perhaps,” snapped Wrexford, turning back to stare into the gloom. “But the clock is ticking, and time is not on our side.”