Page 42 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

A fair point, he conceded, albeit a sharp one that was now sticking rather painfully in his arse. His pique was quick to dissipate as he conceded she had warned him that her livelihood depended on feeding juicy tidbits of gossip to the public.

As he climbed into a hackney and ordered it to head east, his thoughts turned back to the morning’s murder and how it was connected to the death of the Right Reverend Josiah Holworthy. For he refused to believe it was naught but coincidence. The universe, despite its apparent chaos, worked according to fundamental laws of Nature that could, as Newton had so ably proved, be explained by reason and logic.

One simply had to employ careful observation.

What am I not seeing?Leaning back against the squabs, Wrexford brooded on the question until the vehicle made its way past St. Martin’s in the Field. Rapping on the trap, he ordered the driver to halt, then paid the fare, choosing to walk the rest of the way.

The streets narrowed, their crooked turns quickly becoming crisscrossed by alleyways. The area was clinging to genteel poverty, but stews and their rough-edged violence were clawing closer.

He turned up the collar of his coat and let his shoulders slouch. Next time, he must take care to dress in a less lordly fashion. Mrs. Sloane would not thank him for drawing unwonted attention to her. Hugging close to the shadows, he made his way to her lane and approached the front door of her house.

The knock went unanswered.

He tried again.

Damnation.He hadn’t stopped to consider that she might not be at home.

A surreptitious jiggle of the latch showed it was locked. And aside from the moral question of invading her privacy, he hadn’t brought a set of picks.

“Oiy!” A voice, trying to sound deeper than it was, rose up from his rear. “Wot’s ye doing there? Better bugger off quick-like, ’less you want a shiv stuck in your pegs.”

Wrexford turned. “If you stab a blade into my leg again, brat, I will birch your bum until you can’t sit down for a week.”

Two dirty faces fixed him with matching scowls.

“Just try it,” challenged the older boy.

“I would rather behave in a more civilized manner.” He rattled the latch again. “I assume you can open this?”

“Yeah.” Raven—or was it Crow?—held up a key. “But I don’t see why should I let the likes of you in.”

“Then allow me to give you a good one. I need to have a word with Mrs. Sloane, so I won’t be going anywhere until she returns.” He gave a pointed look at the adjoining house, where already the window draperies were twitching. “And I daresay she would rather not have the neighborhood gossiping about strange men loitering outside her door.”

The younger boy whispered something in his brother’s ear. The scowl grew fiercer, but after a small hesitation, Raven stalked past him and opened the lock. “I suppose you can come in. But we’ve got our eyes on you.”

“I expect no less,” he murmured, following the boys through the small entrance foyer into the jack-of-all-trades room that served for cooking, dining, and working.

Drawing out a stool from the table, the earl sat and crossed his legs.

The two boys did the same.

Repressing a smile, he took a leisurely look around. Despite the shabby furnishings, it had a comfortable coziness to it, a sense of life that belied the nicks and dents.

“Have you any idea when Mrs. Sloane will return?” he inquired.

“Naw,” muttered Raven.

Wrexford recalled his earlier visit. “I doubt she would approve of slurred gutter language in front of guests.”

Raven narrowed his eyes, but both boys sat up a little straighter.

“Milady went out te meet a friend,” volunteered Raven’s brother, carefully enunciating his words. “She didn’t say when she would be back.”

“Hawk,” chided Raven in a sharp whisper.

The younger boy looked confused. “I wuz just trying te be polite. M’lady says a gentleman is always polite te guests.”

“He ain’t—heisn’t—a guest,” said Raven. “He’s nothing but trouble.”