CHAPTER 3
Wrexford finished inspecting the grounds of the estate’s chapel and paused in the shade of a stately yew, satisfied that all was in order.
Charlotte’s question of the previous night had put his nerves on edge.
Although he preferred to examine a problem through the lens of logic and evidence, he had learned to trust her intuition.
And so, deciding to err on the side of caution, he and his valet had ridden out at first light to search the nearby wooded areas for any signs of clandestine activity or a hidden campsite.
It wasn’t that he expected any further trouble . . .
But Trouble had a way of sneaking up on him and his loved ones. And the discovery he had made on returning to the manor house—
“Tuck that scowl in your pocket before taking a seat in the chapel, laddie.” The rough-cut burr of Basil Henning, who had finally arrived from London just before the breakfast hour, cut through his brooding. “We’re attending a wedding, not a funeral.”
“One wouldn’t know it by the looks of you,” drawled the earl.
“M’lady informed me that I am the very picture of sartorial splendor,” retorted Henning.
“I concede that for once you don’t look as if you’ve been dragged by the arse through a gorse bush,” said the earl. “Your hair is combed, your cheeks aren’t sprouting an unsightly stubble . . .”
He feigned a look of shock. “Ye gods, will wonders never cease! Your cravat is snow-white, with just the right amount of starch—”
A rusty chuckle. “Tyler gave me one of yours.”
“I see that I shall have to hire a new valet.”
Henning made a rude sound. “As if anyone else would put up with your sarcasm.”
Ignoring the barb, Wrexford pointed to the surgeon’s coat. “I doubt that the beau monde’s definition of sartorial splendor includes having a foul-looking substance smeared on your sleeve.” He gave a tentative sniff. “What is that?”
“You would have to ask the Weasels. They insisted on showing me one of their chemistry experiments once I finished the excellent breakfast that Mac made for me.” His grin faded. “The laddies seem a little blue-deviled. I take it they miss Peregrine.”
“We all do,” replied the earl.
Earlier in the year, circumstances surrounding an investigation into the murder of a brilliant inventor had caused the Weasels to bond with the man’s orphaned young relative, and the three boys—who quickly deemed themselves brothers-in-spirit—had played a vital role in solving the crime.
To the satisfaction of all concerned, Peregrine’s legal guardian had agreed that the boy could come live with Wrexford and his family.
But the one stipulation was that Peregrine, who had inherited his late father’s title, must continue his education at Eton.
The Michaelmas term had just started, which meant that the boy couldn’t be with them for the wedding.
Wrexford expelled an inward sigh. Perhaps that explained why the whole family seemed unsettled.
The ringing of the chapel’s bell drew him back to the moment.
“We had better take our seats before the procession begins,” said Henning, shading his eyes as he glanced back at the building. The old stones were glowing with a mellow gold light in the early afternoon sun.
The earl took one last look around. The dowager would have his guts for garters if any disturbance intruded on the ceremony.
Inside the chapel, the air was perfumed with the sweet scent of fresh-cut flowers from the hothouses.
He and Henning joined Charlotte and Alison in their pew.
After consulting the gold pocket watch tucked in her reticule, the dowager gave a discreet signal, and a murmur of happy anticipation rippled through the guests as the string quartet struck up Haydn’s “Emperor” String Quartet No.
6 in C Major, one of Cordelia’s favorite compositions.
All heads turned as one to the front entrance.
Flanked by Raven and Hawk, a perfectly clean and combed Harper appeared in the open doorway festooned with an ornate flower garland.
Following them were Alice the Eel Girl, Skinny, and Pudge, former urchin friends of the Weasels who now worked at the estate.
The three of them were carrying wicker baskets filled with pink rose petals, which they scattered onto the walkway.
And behind them were . . .
Wrexford finally smiled, allowing his worries to float away on the breeze as he caught sight of the bridal couple.
* * *
Pop, pop, pop. The explosion of tiny champagne bubbles added a festive note to the sounds of merriment as Charlotte gazed over the rim of her crystal glass to where the wedding guests were lingering on the sun-dappled lawn below the back terrace.
“What a perfect day,” she murmured. A sumptuous post-ceremony repast had been served outdoors under a tented canopy, and though the meal was over, everyone seemed loath to leave the magic of the moment. “Kit and Cordelia deserve no less.”
“Perfection is an illusion. So I shall simply wish for them to be as happy as we are.” Wrexford clinked his glass against hers and quaffed the last swallow of his sparkling wine.
Charlotte leaned against his shoulder. “I confess, I shall welcome some peace and quiet—”
She paused, spotting a flicker of movement by the boxwood hedge. “Oh, dear—the Weasels have just absconded with a bottle of champagne and are heading for the stables.” A reluctant chuckle. “To share it, no doubt, with Alice, Skinny, and Pudge.”
Wrexford smiled. “Albert won’t let them get into any real mischief.” The stablemaster tolerated no nonsense within his bailiwick, but his gruff manner disguised an impish sense of humor. “Given the occasion, though, he will turn his back to their bending of the rules this afternoon.”
They stood in companionable silence, watching as the guests slowly began to take their leave of the newly married couple, but she sensed that his mind was elsewhere.
“A farthing for your thoughts?” she said softly, without shifting her gaze.
In answer, he stepped back from the stone railing. “Would you mind stepping inside for a moment? Now that the festivities are coming to end, there is something I would like to show you.”
“I sensed that something was troubling you,” said Charlotte as she followed him through the open French door into the library. “Did you discover something new this morning concerning the break-in?”
“Actually, I did,” replied Wrexford. “However, that’s not what I wish to discuss . . .” The sound of hurried footsteps in the main room of the library caused him to pause.
A moment later, the earl’s estate steward looked into the study chamber. “Forgive me for interrupting you, milord, but two men are outside and requesting an audience.” He tugged nervously at his coat cuff. “They say it is urgent.”
The words sent a chill skittering down Charlotte’s spine.
“Then you had better show them in,” said Wrexford. Charlotte looked back at the terrace, where flashes of bright sunlight were capering across the flagstones. And yet she felt a shadow approaching.
The steward returned, followed by two tired-looking men in mud-spattered riding boots.
“My sincere apology for intruding on your festivities, Lord Wrexford,” said the older of the two, fiddling nervously with the brim of the hat in his hands.
“I am Thaddeus Whalley, magistrate of St. Ives and the eastern towns of Huntingdonshire . . .” Recalling his manners, he quickly added, “And this is Matthew Goffe, our local surgeon and newly appointed coroner.”
Coroner. Charlotte closed her eyes for an instant, knowing the man’s presence could mean only one thing.
“I am afraid that my colleague and I are the bearers of bad news.” Whalley hesitated, looking unsure of how to go on.
“I assume it involves a death in your jurisdiction, Mr. Goffe,” said Wrexford. “Though I am perplexed by how it could relate to me . . .” He glanced at Charlotte. “Or my family.”
In answer, Goffe drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and wordlessly offered it to the earl. It was crinkled with water stains and streaked with mud, but Charlotte immediately recognized its distinctive light blue color, specially made by London’s most exclusive stationery shop.
“It’s an invitation to the wedding,” she said as Wrexford opened it.
“Yes, milady.” Goffe cleared his throat with a cough. “Forgive me, but might I inquire if any guests failed to show up for the occasion?”
“Three,” she answered. “An elderly couple, relatives of the groom, who sent word that the storm had made it too difficult for them to attempt traveling.” After a tiny pause, she added, “And the bride’s cousin.”
“A gentleman, milady?” asked Goffe quickly.
“Yes.”
“Forgive me asking such an indelicate question, but can you describe him?” pressed Goffe.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Neither I nor His Lordship have ever met the fellow.”
“How—” began Goffe, only to be silenced by a stern nudge from the magistrate.
“We shall summon Mrs. Sheffield,” said Wrexford.
Whalley looked aghast. “Isn’t there someone else who might know, milord? I wouldn’t want the poor bride to swoon from shock on her wedding day!”
“My wife,” intoned a voice from just outside the open terrace, “is not prone to swooning.” Sheffield entered and raised a questioning brow at the earl. “I saw that you had visitors. Has it to do with the break-in last night?”
Eyes widening, Whalley let out a huff of confusion.
Charlotte sympathized. Our unconventional inner circle tends to spin in unexpected ways.
“Cordelia would, of course, be happy to describe her confrontation with the intruder,” continued Sheffield. “But he was masked, so she can’t give much of a description.”
“It’s not about the intruder, Kit,” answered Wrexford. “These men are here from Huntingdonshire because they’ve discovered a body, and in the unfortunate fellow’s pocket was an invitation to the wedding.”
Sheffield swore under his breath. “Was it Oliver Carrick?” he demanded of Whalley and Goffe. “My wife’s cousin never arrived. We assumed the storms made travel impossible.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot say,” responded the magistrate. “There was nothing in the man’s pockets save for the wedding invitation.”
“Carrick is a slender fellow, about my height and several years younger, with light brown hair,” offered Sheffield. “I don’t recall the color of his eyes.”
Whalley looked at Goffe, who hesitated before answering. “Based on that vague description, all I can say for certain is that our corpse could be your wife’s cousin.” Goffe shuffled his feet. “Is there no specific physical detail you can tell me that might help?”
Sheffield shook his head. “I only met him once, and that was during a crowded reception at the Royal Institution.”
“But as the fellow had the wedding invitation in his pocket, it stands to reason that it is Carrick,” mused Wrexford.
Goffe didn’t demur.
“By the by, you have not yet mentioned how he died,” continued the earl.
A reasonable question, thought Charlotte. And yet the two visitors exchanged nervous looks before the magistrate cleared his throat.
“The old bridge at King’s Crossing was badly damaged by the severe storms that blew through the area,” explained Whalley, “and could only be crossed by walking across one of the two narrow support beams. The man was found on the rocks below—”
Wrexford couldn’t contain his impatience. “So you are saying it was a wretched accident and he fell to his death.”
Another awkward silence.
“What the devil is going on?” growled Sheffield after it had lingered for several long moments.
Charlotte released an inward sigh, fearing that none of them were going to like the answer.
It was Goffe who ventured an answer. “We thought it was an unfortunate accident at first. But after the body was taken to my mortuary room, I did a closer examination and . . .”
He swallowed hard. “And I discovered evidence of foul play.”
“Explain yourself,” demanded the earl.
“The body was lying on the rocks just below the bridge, but something about the angle of the fall bothered me,” explained Goffe.
“And once I had the body unclothed, I saw there was little sign of bleeding from the damage done by the fall, which made no sense. So I looked more closely and discovered a small but unmistakable stab wound between his left ribs. His clothing confirmed my surmise as I found a corresponding slit in his jacket and shirt.”
Goffe squared his shoulders. “So, I am quite certain that Mr. Carrick was murdered with a thin-bladed knife.”
“Thank you for being so observant,” said Charlotte. “Any victim of foul play, no matter their identity, deserves justice.”
“I agree, milady,” replied Goffe. He turned to the earl.
“The wedding invitation mentioned your name, sir, and I recognized it right away. You see, during my medical training in London, I worked at a surgery run by Basil Henning, who often mentioned you. So I suggested to Squire Whalley that we come in person to inform you.”
“Seeing as you are accorded to be quite an expert in solving murders,” added the magistrate.
“A skill I do not look to sharpen,” muttered Wrexford. “Especially now.”
Whalley shifted uncomfortably. “Again, milord, we deeply regret intruding on your celebration.”
“It seems to me that we have good reason to trust Mr. Goffe’s judgment,” responded Charlotte, after the earl turned to stare out the windows without making a reply.
Sheffield, however, didn’t appear entirely convinced. “That may be so. But I should feel more at ease if we ask Baz to take a look at the body—especially if it is Carrick—and judge for himself.”
“Mr. Henning is here?” Goffe’s expression brightened.
“He is,” replied Wrexford. “I shall, of course, inform him of the situation. I’m sure he will be happy to offer a second opinion.”
“However, it’s too late to make the return trip to Huntingdonshire.
The two of you will stay here tonight, and then leave with Henning in the morning,” said Charlotte to Whalley and Goffe.
“I’ll have our housekeeper show you to your rooms in our guest wing and then take you to the kitchen for some sustenance.
You must be tired and hungry after your travels. ”
She waved off the magistrate’s attempt to demur. “It appears that the crime touches our friends, and thus our family, Mr. Whalley. We are all now part of the investigation.” Like it or not, she added to herself.
Wrexford’s expression was impossible to decipher.
“Please come with me,” continued Charlotte. “I’ll return shortly,” she said to the others. “And then let us discuss how to break the terrible news to Cordelia.”
A whisper of wind stirred outside . . . and then a rustle of silk.
“What news?” came a voice from the terrace.