Page 9 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)
F eeling unaccountably uneasy, Charlotte abandoned all pretense of sketching out a new drawing on the ongoing hunt for the escaped monkey.
It was true that the public needed to have occasional interludes of humor interspersed between her serious commentaries on the various threats and challenges facing society.
Abuse of power, frightening new technology, the loss of jobs, the rising costs of basic sustenance …
But somehow, her mind simply wouldn’t focus on the task at hand.
Putting aside her pen, she rose and decided to pay a visit to Hatchards bookstore, hoping a brisk walk down to Piccadilly would help clear her head. An illustrated volume on the flora and fauna of India, including the grey langur monkey, might amuse the Weasels.
The sun was shining, but there was a bite to the blustery breeze, and a bank of grey clouds creeping in from the west warned that the weather might take a turn for the worse.
Quickening her steps, Charlotte soon reached her destination and slipped into the welcome warmth of the shop.
Drawing in the soothing scent of paper and ink and leather, she felt herself relax.
Throughout her life, books had always been welcome companions, offering wisdom, inspiration, and a wondrous sense of adventure as one journeyed to the world of imagination.
“Ah, great minds think alike.” The voice of her dear friend Cordelia, who was still settling into married life as Mrs. Sheffield, drew her back from her musing. “What brings you here today?”
“No pressing reason. I thought the Weasels might enjoy reading about simians,” answered Charlotte, then took Cordelia’s arm and drew her into one of the many alcoves of the bookshop.
Seeing that they were alone, she added, “But to be honest, I’m feeling at sixes and sevens.
The last few days have been unsettling … ”
She recounted the news of the murder, along with an account of the troubling encounter experienced by the Weasels during their hunt for the fugitive monkey.
“Good Lord,” intoned Cordelia. “Someone actually fired a pistol at Raven?”
“If not for the rucksack filled with iron grappling hooks and rope …” A shudder caused her voice to stick in her throat for a moment. “He was awfully lucky.”
“The boys are strong and resilient. They won’t suffer any lasting aftereffects of the scare.” Cordelia gave her a quick hug. “And as for you, it does no good to fret on what might have been. Put it out of your head.”
“Wise advice,” she murmured. And yet she couldn’t help thinking that no amount of strength and resilience would stop a bullet.
“That’s interesting about the financial papers,” said Cordelia, clearly intent on changing the subject.
“Talk of ‘stocks’ and ‘coordinated positions’ strikes me as very odd if the two men were simply organizing the banknotes and other documents related to the sale of merchandise.” She thought for a moment longer.
“Raven said the building was a shipping warehouse?”
“Yes, he mentioned that it was made of brick, with a flat roof and small cobbled courtyard abutting the river just east of White Lion Wharf,” answered Charlotte.
“Very odd,” repeated Cordelia, a furrow forming between her brows. “I think I know the place, and my understanding is that the previous tenant’s business failed after several of his ships fully laden with spice went down in a typhoon off Madagascar. And so it’s been empty for the last few months.”
The news only further unsettled Charlotte’s nerves.
“But I may be mistaken,” added Cordelia, on seeing her expression. “Come, let us move on to the shelves devoted to mathematics. I wish to purchase an updated edition of The Doctrine of Interest and Annuities by Mr. Francis Baily for my next lesson with Raven.”
“Francis Baily?” Charlotte’s brows winged up in surprise. “But isn’t he an ardent astronomer? Wrex introduced me to him recently at a scientific soiree and mentioned that Mr. Baily and several other gentlemen were trying to organize a Royal Astronomical Society.”
“Yes, Baily is currently focused on the science of the heavens,” answered Cordelia.
“But he began his career on the London Stock Exchange. His inventive use of mathematics allowed him to earn a considerable fortune on the Exchange, allowing him to retire from stock trading and devote himself to astronomy. His book, however, is a significant contribution to the field of financial mathematics and it sets out many of the methodologies he employed while trading on the Exchange.”
“Ah, how interesting. I’m sure Raven will find it fascinating.
” Charlotte readily followed her friend to the back of the bookstore, but her thoughts had already wandered elsewhere.
If the warehouse was supposedly unoccupied, who were the men doing business there in the dead of night? And why did one of them shoot at Raven?
Wrexford would likely say they were simply two of the many cunning criminals who made their living along the river, where the myriad wharves and storage enclaves offered a wealth of opportunities to profit from the lack of security.
“Are you all right?’ Cordelia turned from perusing the shelves and fixed her with a look of concern.
“Just fatigued,” answered Charlotte. “I didn’t get much sleep.”
And likely I will get even less tonight .
After quitting the card room at White’s, Wrexford was about to exit the exclusive gentlemen’s club on St. James’s Street when he spotted Sheffield seated by the fire in the reading room, a glass of tawny port in hand as he studied what looked to be a table of numbers.
“Excellent,” said the earl. Tired and frustrated, he decided to join his friend.
Since leaving the Bow Street Magistracy, he had managed to track down a dozen members who had witnessed the argument at the Royal Society on the night of the murder.
Several of them recalled the stranger, but nobody had any idea who had invited him.
Which meant that tomorrow he would have to begin pursuing the rest of the gentlemen who had attended the monthly meeting.
“Seeing as you can finally afford to buy a decent bottle of spirits,” said Wrexford, “you may pour me a glass.”
“With pleasure.” Sheffield chuckled. “The porter still thinks I’m a feckless wastrel and puts it on your bill.”
“Arse.” More tired than he cared to admit, the earl sank into the soft leather cushions of the nearby armchair and released a sigh.
“So,” said Sheffield, interrupting Wrexford’s brooding, “I take it the Weasels didn’t succeed in their hunt for the monkey?”
“Actually they did.”
“But the newspaper says—”
“Yes, yes, I know. It’s still on the loose. But according to the boys, they would have netted the rascal if some unknown gentleman hadn’t opened a window and fired a bullet into Raven’s back.”
Sheffield slowly put down his drink. “I’m more used to your sardonic humor than most people, but still, that’s not remotely funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” Wrexford took a long swallow of port and then recounted all the details of the ill-fated expedition.
“Bloody bastards,” muttered Sheffield. “So what are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing.”
A look of surprise flitted over his friend’s face, followed by consternation, which then quickly surrendered to grudging understanding. “I suppose any report of the incident could lead to … uncomfortable questions.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” The last thing Wrexford wished to do was draw attention to his unconventional family.
To the beau monde, the boys were merely a shadowy presence.
People knew of their existence but rarely saw them in public—at least, not knowingly.
That was de rigueur among most aristocratic families. And he wished to keep it that way.
The fewer questions asked about them, the better.
Sheffield remained tactfully silent as the earl quaffed a few quick swallows of port and refilled his glass, but then couldn’t help but ask, “Is there something else bothering you?”
“Aside from the fact that I’ve been drawn into yet another murder investigation?”
“Another murder?” Sheffield raised his brows. “I thought you and Charlotte had made a pact—”
“Yes, and I intended to keep it.” Wrexford made a face. “But the best-laid plans of mice and men …”
“Surely you could have found a way to say no,” mused Sheffield.
“Alas, it’s not that simple.” He recounted what had happened at the Royal Society and how he had come to be involved in the crime.
“I feel that I owe Durs Egg, the fellow who requested my help, a debt of gratitude for his assistance last summer,” added Wexford.
“And I’m also convinced that the wrong man has been arrested. ”
“But can’t Griffin handle the situation?” asked his friend.
“Griffin was pressured to make the arrest,” answered Wrexford.
“Why?”
“A good question.” The earl stared into the measure of tawny port in his glass, as if an answer might be hidden in the depths of the wine.
“That’s one of several things that bothers me about this murder.
Another is the whole scenario. It seems so well planned—and yet, how could the killer know that Egg’s brother-in-law would get into a very public altercation with Boyleston and thus be able to plant a weapon that would incriminate the fellow? ”
Sheffield contemplated the question. “The easy answer is that Egg’s relative did in fact commit the crime, and Egg is lying out of a sense of loyalty to his family.”
“True,” he conceded. “But I’m not yet ready to believe that.”
“So what’s the alternative?”
Wrexford closed his eyes, listening to the crackle of the coals as he pondered the few bits and pieces that he knew about the murder and admitted that for now he couldn’t see how they fit together.
There had to be a logical explanation.
So why can’t I see it?
Sheffield edged back in his chair and recrossed his legs.