Page 2 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

He would have preferred to win the fellow over with persuasion, but he wasn’t averse to using force. It was, after all, for the Higher Good.

“Advancement?” repeated the man slowly. “Your chances of advancement would be virtually nil were I to inform certain people of your little secret.”

Silence.

“You think I haven’t learned your real identity?” A smile. “Surely you must sense by now that God has granted me special powers.”

“Is that a threat?” asked Golden One softly.

“Simply a warning,” he replied. “But come, let us not quarrel over theoretical conflicts. The truth is, you will soon be rich beyond your wildest dreams.”

“What you ask is dangerous.”

“Ah, but to reach out and grasp the immortal beauty of genius requires taking a leap of faith.” A pause. “Just think of it—you will effect not just a worldly transformation but also a spiritual one as well.” He couldn’t keep his voice from rising a notch.How could the fellow not appreciate the sublime wonder of what he was being offered?“The risk is well worth the reward.”

“I . . .” Golden One shot a nervous look at the far end of the transept. “Did you hear something?”

“No.” The man cocked an ear.

Nothing.

“I assure you, there’s no one else here at this hour. The watchman won’t make his rounds for another hour.”

“I tell you, I saw a flutter of movement.”

He looked around, probing the darkness for several long moments before shaking his head.The fellow was seeing specters. Such a volatile imagination would have to be carefully controlled.

“There’s nothing—”

As he turned back, a splash of liquid, burning hot as the fires of hell, hit his face. “G-God Almighty!”

“Yes, say a prayer,” said Golden One softly as he quickly pocketed the book and drew a carving knife from beneath his cloak.

“Heavenly Father, I beseech you . . .” Clawing at his blinded eyes, the man fell to his knees, the rest of his words spiraling into a piercing scream.

CHAPTER 1

Aplume of steam rose from the bubbling crucible, the curl of silvery vapor floating ghost-like against the shadowed wood paneling before dissolving into the darkness. After consulting his pocket watch, the Earl of Wrexford scribbled a few more notations in his ledger, the scratch of his pen punctuated by the softpop, pop, popof colorless chemicals.

“The Devil’s brew,” he murmured, leaning back in his desk chair and staring at the brightly colored satirical print propped up against a stack of books. “Though I give the artist credit for coming up with a far more poetic phrase.”

Satan’s Syllabub.Pitchforks had been drawn in to replace the twol’s of the print’s red-lettered title. As for the caricature of him . . .

A mirthless laugh slipped from his lips.

A pair of scarlet horns poked out from the tangle of long black hair. “I must remember to visit my barber this week,” he murmured, brushing a strand of the shoulder-length locks from his collar. “And is my nose really that beaky? I have always thought it rather elegantly aquiline.”

Shifting his gaze lower, he saw that the artist had drawn him without his trousers on and that his bare hairy legs—a gross exaggeration—ended in cloven hooves. The fine print of the caption explained that he was in the habit of concocting his noxious brews right after enjoying an amorous interlude with his latest conquest.

“Lies,” muttered Wrexford wryly, taking a moment to eye the clever caricature of a near-naked lady peeking out from the large copper crucible cradled between his knees. The deft pen strokes had captured Diana Fairfield’s petulant pout with frightening accuracy.

Yes, the face was perfect, but the implied timing was all wrong.

“I never mix business with pleasure.” For one thing, performing chemical experiments in the nude could have very painful consequences.

But then, he supposed the artist couldn’t be blamed for taking poetic license. A. J. Quill had earned a reputation for creating London’s most scathing satirical prints, and no doubt earned a pretty penny for his merciless skewering of those caught up in the latest Society scandal.

Be damned with truth.Ruthless images, cutting commentary—that was what the paying public wanted. Misery loved company, especially when the sufferer was one of the Privileged Few.