Page 8 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

“You abuse her goodwill,” pointed out Wrexford. Though that, he admitted, was rather like the pot calling the kettle black.

“True.” Sheffield exhaled a penitent sigh. “I should reform, I know. But I haven’t your mental discipline.” He rose, just long enough to help himself to a heaping plate of shirred eggs and gammon from the chafing dishes on the sideboard.

Wrexford watched his friend wolf down a bite. “Remind me to inform Riche that you are to be barred entrance here until your table manners improve.”

“Ha, ha, not a chance. He likes me more than he does you,” retorted Sheffield. “I don’t bite his head off half a dozen times a day.”

The earl let out a grudging laugh.

“Now, will you kindly ring for more coffee.”

As a footman entered with a fresh pot, the earl’s butler followed behind him, frowning apologetically through the trailing plume of steam. “Forgive me for interrupting your meal, sir. But a Runner—Mr. Griffin by name—is here from Bow Street demanding to speak with you.”

“Right on cue,” quipped Sheffield. He rubbed his hands together with an ill-concealed grin of glee. “This should be highly diverting.”

“You have always found farces amusing,” growled Wrexford.

“It’s only natural, seeing as my own life veers to the absurd.”

The earl made a pained face. “Show him in, Riche.”

The butler reluctantly escorted in a tall, stocky fellow wearing a heavy overcoat and a fierce scowl. His red vest was garishly bright in contrast to the dull coloring of his other garments.

Wrexford winced. “Would you be so good as to step out of the sunlight. You are hurting my eyes.”

If the Runner was intimidated by the ornate surroundings, he didn’t show it. Ignoring the request, he pulled a notebook and pencil from his coat pocket and set to work. “Lord Wrexford, the magistrate at Bow Street has sent me here to ask you a few questions concerning the bad blood between you and the Reverend Josiah Holworthy. He was murdered last night.”

“I have heard the news.”

“I wish to enquire about—”

“About my whereabouts?”

“Precisely, milord.” Griffin waited expectantly.

Wrexford took a bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully.

“Would you care for a cup of coffee, sirrah?” asked Sheffield. “It’s black and scalding as the Devil’s arse.”

“I prefer not to accept His Lordship’s hospitality,” came the curt reply. “Especially when it concerns anything liquid.”

Wrexford felt his lips twitch. At least the fellow possessed a sardonic sense of humor to balance his wretched taste in fashion. But then, a red waistcoat was required for the job, so perhaps it wasn’t his fault.

“Now, as to your whereabouts, sir. Aside from a gaming hell on St. James’s Street.”

He put down his fork. The man, as befitting his sleuthhound job, had already begun sniffing around. “I was out walking.”

“Alone?”

“Alone,” confirmed the earl. “I find exercise stimulates the mind, and there were a number of things I wished to ponder.”

The Runner didn’t inquire as to what things. Instead he said, “You are said to have an interest in chemistry. Might I ask why?”

“Because I am curious. The workings of the natural world interest me. They have much to teach us.”

“Curious,” repeated Griffin with a sniff, as if he had smelled something rotten. “You mean to say, your dabblings have no purpose except to satisfy your curiosity?”

Wrexford held his temper in check. “Knowledge is a purpose unto itself.”