Page 5 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)

The click of their shoes crossing the marble tiles sounded unnaturally loud in the silence.

The sounds stirred a frisson of alarm as Charlotte recalled the details of Wrexford’s last encounter with the secretary.

The earl had been drawn into investigating the suspicious death of a Royal Society member during a gala celebration at the Royal Botanic Gardens.

Granted, there was an old adage about lightning not striking in the same place twice …

But that hope quickly went up in smoke. Bethany entered the parlor and turned, his ashen face taking on a sickly yellow glow in the lamplight as the earl followed him into the room.

“The unthinkable has happened, Wrexford,” he intoned without preamble. “Violent death—a ghastly murder—has struck down another member of our august Society this evening.”

“Sit, milord,” counseled Charlotte, taking his arm and guiding him to a chair facing the sofa.

“I’m sorry to hear such terrible news,” replied Wrexford as he poured a glass of brandy from the decanters on the sideboard. “How and where did this happen?”

Bethany accepted the spirits but merely held the glass between his trembling palms and stared down into the amber spirits. “He was shot on the back terrace stairs of Somerset House after our monthly meeting.”

“A robbery?” asked Charlotte.

“It does not appear so. His purse was untouched.” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the gesture might erase the awful incident.

“The victim was Atticus Boyleston, the main speaker of the evening. He was an odd, abrasive fellow and not well-liked by his fellow members because of his fraternization with French scientists during the Peace of Amiens as well as a shorter sojourn to Paris during the autumn of 1812.”

“But surely those past interludes weren’t a reason for murder,” said Wrexford.

“There was a confrontation between Boyleston and several other members right after he finished presenting his paper. The initial argument was over Boyleston’s research conclusions, which sparked much derision,” responded the secretary.

“However, things turned very personal—and very ugly—when someone in the crowd who had lost a son in battle during the Peninsular campaign accused him of aiding and abetting the enemy.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean his sharp words translated into lethal action,” mused the earl.

A glimmer of hope came to life in Bethany’s eyes.

“However, I’m not quite sure why you are coming to me.”

“I … I suppose I was hoping …” The secretary drew in a shaky breath.

“I suppose I was hoping that you would consent to help with the case. Your investigation of the murder at the Royal Botanic Gardens was done not only with great skill but also with great discretion. It saved our Society’s good name from being dragged through the mud of lurid gossip and wild speculation. ”

Charlotte sympathized with the secretary’s concerns. But murder had taken a toll on her family of late. Solving a violent death, no matter how seemingly simple, was always fraught with complexities. One never came away emotionally unscathed.

She looked at Wrexford, hoping that he would not feel compelled to get involved. Recent circumstances had demanded that he put off dealing with a personal conundrum, and she was aching for him to have the peace and quiet in which to finally do so.

To her relief, he appeared to be of the same mind.

“Again, I’m sorry to hear of the murder.

But as I have no knowledge or connections that would give me any unique advantage in solving this crime, I don’t see that I can add any meaningful assistance to the duly appointed authorities in charge of solving the city’s crimes,” replied Wrexford.

“This is clearly a case for the Bow Street magistrate to handle. Ask him to assign Griffin to investigate. I assure you, he is the very soul of discretion and extremely good at what he does.”

Bethany’s face fell. “We have already sent word to Bow Street, and as I remembered Mr. Griffin as someone you held in high respect, I did request him. But—”

“Then you are in good hands, sir,” interjected Charlotte before he could go on. “Given the facts you have presented, I am quite confident that Griffin will bring about a quick resolution to the case.”

The secretary looked about to argue, but on meeting her steely stare, he merely put his glass on the tea table and rose. “Thank you both for your counsel. Again, my apologies for disturbing your evening.”

Wrexford saw Bethany out and returned within a few minutes.

“You did the right thing,” she said, before he could speak.

“I don’t doubt that,” replied the earl. And yet his expression belied his words.

Charlotte quickly changed the subject, intent on turning his thoughts back to family concerns.

“Now that the major issues have been hammered out by the leading powers of Europe at the Congress of Vienna, I am hoping that our friend Herr von Münch will finally follow up on the cryptic note he left for you after our unexpected meeting at Eton.”

“Wishful thinking,” muttered the earl.

“Despite his occasional falsehoods, I don’t think he was lying,” she countered. “He claims to have information regarding your father and the mysterious person that we know only as ‘A.’”

They had met von Münch during the investigation of a murder at Oxford’s Merton College Library and had encountered him again during the course of dealing with a more recent crime.

He was, to say the least, an enigma. Especially as von Münch had promised to pass the information along as soon as he had confirmed a few more details—and that had been months ago.

“And when von Münch does reveal what he knows,” continued Charlotte, “we can focus all our efforts on learning what secrets your father might have been hiding from you, and—”

“I’m beginning to think that solving the mystery doesn’t matter.” Wrexford’s gaze turned shuttered. “After all it’s too late to make peace with him.”

“On the contrary,” said Charlotte. “You will never put your old ghosts to rest until you understand all the aspects of your father’s life.” A pause. “And forgive yourself for the fact that your own pain and suffering over your brother’s death kept the two of you apart.”

The earl looked away.

“Our friend sensed your inner struggle—” began Charlotte.

“Like Cordelia and Kit, I take issue with you calling von Münch a friend,” groused the earl. “The jackanapes stole a goodly amount of money from my workroom.”

She raised her brows. “It wasn’t ours to begin with.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“No, but as it was originally meant for a nefarious purpose, I trust that he has put it to better use.”

“You have more faith in him than I do.”

“I daresay that at some point in the not too distant future we will learn which of us is right.”

The soft chiming of the mantel clock drew Charlotte’s attention to a different subject. “I do hope the Weasels are growing bored with their nocturnal hunt and will return home soon.”

Hawk screamed and grabbed at the straps of Raven’s rucksack before he slipped off the top of the coping.

“Hold tight!” Peregrine kicked aside the jammed rachet apparatus and rushed to help drag Raven over the stonework and lay him face down on the shingles of the roof.

The bullet had blown open a gaping hole in the rucksack, the edges singed with gunpowder.

“Raven?” Hawk crouched down and gently shook his brother’s arm. “Raven?”

On getting no response, he looked up, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I … I think he’s dead.”

“Ha—not a chance! Lucifer would spit him back in a heartbeat,” said Peregrine, refusing to believe the worst. He gently eased the rucksack off Raven’s back, then reached into his rope bag and fished out a small flask.

“Help me turn him over.”

Gripped by shock, Hawk fumbled to do as ordered, but on seeing his brother’s lifeless features limned in the moonlight, he froze and choked back a sob.

Pushing him aside, Peregrine uncorked the flask and dumped the contents over Raven’s face.

“A-A-Arrgh!” Sputtering for breath, Raven winced and then his eyelids fluttered open. “That bloody stings !”

“Good!” Peregrine grabbed up his bags. “Can you stand?”

After pushing himself up on one elbow, Raven flexed his legs, still looking a little groggy. “O-Oiy.”

“Then stop lollygagging and do so!” He took hold of Hawk’s collar and hoisted him up. “We need to fly.” He pointed to the wooden structure on the middle of the roof. “Because my guess is whoever fired that shot at you is going to be bursting through the stairwell door at any moment.”

As Raven scrabbled to his feet, a small thunk sounded as a small round bit of metal fell from his rucksack onto the roof shingles.

Hawk grabbed it before it rolled away. “Lady Luck—”

“Never mind Luck! Run!” Peregrine punctuated the order with a hard shove to his fellow Weasels as the echoing of hurried steps grew louder within the stairwell.

The three of them raced to the right rear corner of the building where the decorative cornerstones and drainpipe afforded handholds for making their way back down to the street.

With monkeylike quickness, they hurried through the descent and reached a narrow ledge crowning a set of padlocked double doors

“Jump!” cried Peregrine, after a glance upward showed a black silhouette suddenly appear at the roof’s edge.

They hit the dirt footpath just as a shot rang out, regained their footing, and were off in a blur before their assailant could fire again.

Wrexford brushed back a lock of unruly hair as he made his way down to the kitchen. He had awoken at the crack of dawn, and finding his thoughts too unsettled for further sleep, he had decided to brew himself a pot of coffee and face his inner demons while the rest of the house was in repose.

Solitude offered few convenient distractions. It forced the mind to focus, no matter if the picture was not a pretty one.

However, a bustling in the pantries warned that he wasn’t alone.

“There is coffee on the hob, milord,” called McClellan. She appeared a moment later with a basket of eggs and a bottle of milk. “Shall I fry up some gammon for you?”

“Thank you, but just coffee for now.” He poured himself a cup and savored the rich spice of the dark roasted beans. “You’re up even earlier than usual.”

“As are you.” She opened the oven door to check on the pan of baking muffins.

“By the by, in case you didn’t hear them, the Weasels returned safe and sound—without the monkey, I might add—several hours before dawn.

The hunt must have proved more difficult than they imagined, and pragmatism won out over the thrill of adventure. ”

“I did hear them,” answered Wrexford, “and the fact that they proceeded so quietly to their rooms led me to the conclusion that the monkey was not part of the menagerie.” A wry smile. “Thank heaven. Our household is eccentric enough as it is. Any addition might …”

The thought made him pause. “Actually, I prefer not to contemplate the idea.”

The maid chuckled. “We have managed quite well with all the changes here at Berkeley Square over the past few years. I daresay we would adapt to any further surprises that Life chooses to toss our way.”

Changes. Wrexford took a meditative sip of his coffee. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined the twists and turns that had altered his previous existence. Several years ago, he had been a solitary bachelor, sharp-tempered, and prone to dark brooding.

He leaned back in his chair, still a bit bemused by how all that had changed. Now he was married to a lady he admired and adored, and the two of them were surrogate parents to three lively boys.

Wrexford wasn’t quite sure what he had done to deserve such happiness, but he was grateful beyond words.

“Indeed,” he replied. “It seems that we have ceased to be shocked by anything that comes our way.”

“You might want to reconsider those words,” said Charlotte as she entered the kitchen, a grim expression darkening her gaze. Without further ado, she held up a rucksack and put a hand inside it—then poked a finger through the rather large puncture in the canvas.