Page 19 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

CHAPTER 4

“Forgive me for interrupting your breakfast.” Closing the door behind him, Tyler approached the head of the table. “But I thought you might wish to see this without delay.”

Wrexford eyed the roll of paper and set down his cup. “I take it A. J. Quill’s pen has not been idle.”

“No.” The oily bite of fresh ink cut through the aroma of coffee as the valet spread out the print.

“How the devil . . .” muttered Wrexford.

“How indeed,” responded Tyler. “It would seem that the artist is as all-present as Satan.”

“For him to know that Sheffield was present when the Runner was interrogating me, and that we were looking at Quill’s print of the murder . . .” The earl pursed his lips. It would seem there were only two possible explanations. Neither of which were pleasant to contemplate. “The artist must be bribing the Runner.” He looked up. “Or he is bribing you.”

Tyler met his gaze without twitching a lash. “I shall forget you said that,” he replied. “You never think very clearly before you have your eggs and gammon.”

Wrexford chuffed a grudging laugh. “Not precisely true. I can on occasion exert myself. But point taken.”

“By the by, if I needed money,” added his valet, “I’d simply abscond with the family jewel collection that you keep in the safe of your study.”

“It has an exceedingly complicated German lock.”

A sniff. “Oh, please.”

The earl let out another chuckle. “It’s lucky for you that your arsenal of unusual skills proves useful at times.”

“And for you, milord.”

“True.” A pause. “I’m quite aware that no one else would tolerate my peculiar sense of humor.”

“I shall take that as both an apology and an expression of heartfelt thanks for enduring your irascible moods.”

“Don’t press your luck.” Wrexford refilled his cup and took a sip. “It must be the cursed Runner who’s selling his secrets.”

“I think that unlikely,” replied Tyler. “From what I’ve heard, Griffin is the best of the Bow Street lot. He has a reputation for scrupulous honesty. And dogged determination.”

“Well, in this case, he is barking down the wrong vermin hole.” Leaning back in his chair, he contemplated the ornate painted detailing on the Adam ceiling.Twists and twines.“I really do think it’s about time I paid a visit to A. J. Quill. Any news from your Scottish tracker?”

Tyler curled a faint smile. “As a matter of fact, sir, he is waiting downstairs in the kitchen.”

* * *

Rain pelted against the narrow mullioned window, as if the gods were taking perverse pleasure in echoing the faintthump-thumpof foreboding inside her head. No doubt, mused Charlotte, the thought of primitive, pagan forces controlling the universe would be considered blasphemous in civilized London.

“Civilized—ha!” she whispered. A leading churchman savagely slaughtered, orphans and widows left to fend for themselves in the hardscrabble streets, the ravages of war draining the country’s coffers. “The concepts of charity and kindness to all seem to have gone to hell in a handbasket.”

Charlotte put down her pen and stared glumly at the drawing she was trying to finish. Prinny’s accusing eyes stared back at her, half hidden in the corpulent folds of flesh she had made for his face. Normally she felt no compunction about skewering the Royals, but a dark mood had taken hold of her this morning, brought on perhaps by seeing the boys head out into the gloom. Raven had said that he wanted to search for more gossip on the Earl of Wrexford and the ongoing murder investigation.

She hated that they felt compelled to dig up dirt for her.

But dirt sold her satirical prints. And money put food in their mouths.

Ergo unum oportet esse pragmaticam.

“I must be pragmatic,” she repeated aloud, hoping the spoken words might help chase away her malaise.

A gust of wet wind rattled the glass.

So much for incantations and talismans. They were fiddle-faddle for the foolish. Railing at Fate was a waste of breath. If one hoped to shape destiny, one had to do so with one’s own hands.