CHAPTER 4
When Sheffield didn’t answer right away, Cordelia appeared from behind one of the flower-filled marble urns flanking the open French doors and stepped into the room, her eyes narrowing in a question.
Wrexford avoided meeting her gaze. The ties of friendship that bound them all together were stronger than ever. But as of today, they had rewoven themselves in a slightly altered way, and he was intent on not inadvertently tugging at one of the new threads before it had settled into place.
“Good heavens, surely it’s not that bad,” said Cordelia with a tentative attempt at humor.
“I fear it is,” said Sheffield. He moved to her side and clasped her hand in his. “A body has been discovered beneath the bridge at King’s Crossing.” He hesitated before adding, “These men here have come to inform us that the poor fellow appears to be the victim of foul play.”
“But what does that have to do—” Cordelia froze. “Dear God. Is it O-Oliver?”
“The only thing in his pockets was an invitation to the wedding,” said Sheffield.
“Then it must be him,” she responded in a tightly controlled voice.
“Forgive me, milady—” began Goffe.
“Mrs. Sheffield,” corrected Cordelia. Although aristocratic protocol allowed her to retain her title of Lady Cordelia even though Sheffield was, as a younger son of nobility, a mere “Mister,” she was quite adamant about not doing so.
The coroner bobbed his head in acknowledgment and swallowed hard. “Might I inquire as to whether your cousin had any distinctive mark on his body—a birthmark or a scar that might confirm his identity?”
Cordelia shook her head. “Not that I know of. His eyes are blue—a very bright shade of sapphire—if that helps at all.”
A look of puzzlement flitted across Goffe’s face. “Y-You are quite sure that your cousin doesn’t have a distinctive burn mark on his left forearm?”
Wrexford saw her suddenly clutch Sheffield’s arm, her expression wavering between shock and relief. “That’s not Oliver! It’s Jasper Milton, a dear friend of mine from childhood who was equally close with Oliver. The three of us were inseparable!”
She drew in a shaky breath. “I remember the day the accident occurred—Jasper was tinkering with an experimental steam engine that he and Oliver had constructed when the firebox cracked, and he was hit with an exploding chunk of red-hot coal.”
Goffe gave an apologetic look at Sheffield. “I am sorry, but I must ask your wife a very indelicate question—”
“My wife is not prone to swoons or tears, Mr. Goffe. She is, in fact, tough as nails,” replied Sheffield with a note of pride. “Whatever it is you wish to know, go ahead and ask her directly.”
The coroner cleared his throat with an uncertain cough but did as he was instructed. “Mrs. Sheffield, could you perchance describe the scar? I ask because such details will help make a conclusive identification.”
“I appreciate your professionalism, sir.” Cordelia extended her bare forearm.
The watered silk sash of her wedding dress shimmered in the sunlight as she moved, noted Wrexford, its flickering hues of blue and violet accentuating the paleness of her flesh.
“It’s located here.” Cordelia tapped at a spot just below her elbow. “And is shaped like a starburst, approximately two inches wide and three inches high . . .” Her forefinger traced a jagged outline.
“Thank you,” said Goffe. “Given the eye color and the scar, I think there is little doubt that the victim is Mr. Milton.”
Sheffield murmured a thanks, then whispered something to Cordelia which drew a grateful nod.
“If you will excuse us, my wife and are going to take a walk in the gardens.”
Wrexford waited until they had disappeared from the terrace, before ringing the silver bell on the side table to summon the housekeeper.
“Mrs. Meadows will show you to your rooms and arrange for a meal to be served,” he said to Goffe and Whalley.
“Let us plan to leave at first light with Henning to confirm that Milton was the victim of foul play.”
* * *
“Drat,” whispered Charlotte after closing the glass-paned doors. “I would like to believe that Mr. Goffe is mistaken about the chest wound. Death is death, but we all know how murder can stir up unexpected secrets and cause yet more pain.”
“Nobody is infallible,” answered Wrexford. “But he’s been well trained, and I don’t think that we shall be so lucky as to have Baz overrule his verdict.”
Charlotte twisted the fringe of her shawl around her fingers. “What do you know of Milton?” After a moment of thought, she added, “And for that matter, Cordelia’s missing cousin, Oliver Carrick?”
“Only what little Kit has mentioned to me,” replied the earl.
“He said that both Milton and Carrick are very gifted in advanced mathematics and engineering, but he indicated that Cordelia had told him that Milton was the real thinker—not only a practical genius but also a fellow interested in considering the philosophical implication of Progress and Change.”
Charlotte furrowed her brow in thought.
“Several years ago, the two of them formed a club with three other scientific-minded men called the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society.”
“An odd name,” she mused.
“Apparently the members are all interested in innovations that will make travel faster and more efficient.”
“You mean modes of transportation like Puffing Billy?” she asked. Sheffield had been an early investor in the prototype steam locomotive, and several enterprises were making progress on the engineering challenges of turning the new technology into a viable commercial venture.
“It’s my understanding that while the society is interested in the development of new types of vehicles, its primary focus is on improving methods of building roads and bridges in order to create a reliable transportation network connecting all parts of the country,” he answered.
“Sheffield says that the members are all very passionate about the subject and believe that by making the movement of goods and people swift and easy they will transform society.”
Wrexford paused. “I have to say, I don’t disagree.”
“Revolutionary, indeed,” murmured Charlotte. “Given that he appears to be the driving force, I wonder whether the society will survive Milton’s death?”
“I’ve no idea.” He pressed a palm to one of the sun-warmed panes of glass, and yet it didn’t quite dispel the chill tingling in his fingers.
As if in concert with his mood, a trio of crows circled low over the terrace, their dissonate screeches shattering the stillness for a moment before they flapped away.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he suddenly muttered.
Charlotte hurried across the carpet to join him and right away spotted what had caught his eye.
She turned without a word and rushed to reopen the doors and meet the Weasels as they raced up the shallow terrace stairs.
“A-A varlet—” began Raven with an out-of-breath wheeze.
“Hurled a rock—” cried Hawk.
The rest of their words jumbled together as both of them began talking at once.
“Silence!” commanded Wrexford.
The cacophony instantly ceased.
“Let us all step into the library.” Though the last of the guests had left the lawns, he didn’t wish to cloud the wedding day by stirring speculation that something was amiss.
Once they were inside, he pointed to Raven. “You first.”
A deep inhale. “We were out behind the stables with Alice and Skinny and Pudge when a man suddenly appeared among the trees edging the west pasture and flung a rock at us.”
Another ragged breath. “Skinny wanted us to give chase,” continued Raven. “But I didn’t think you would like that, so we let him get away.”
“Perhaps,” said Charlotte gently, “you misunderstood the man’s gesture. He may simply have been hoping to forage some apples from the orchard and your presence scared him away.” A pause. “I did notice the two of you absconding with a bottle of champagne.”
“We were not foxed!” responded Raven with an indignant scowl. “Between the five of us, a bottle barely wet our whistles!”
“Oiy,” agreed Hawk. “Besides, it prickles the tongue. Whisky is more inter—
A sudden nudge from his brother cut him off.
“I won’t ask how you came to decide that,” said Wrexford.
When the boys wisely said nothing, he continued, “As for your assailant, m’lady has a point. Are you sure our recent encounter with the intruder didn’t color your thinking? I can’t imagine why a stranger would hurl a rock at you.” A grim smile. “Unless he was thirsty.”
“Perhaps he wanted to send a message,” retorted Raven as he pulled a crumpled strip of paper from his pocket. “There was a missive tied around the rock.”
To punctuate his brother’s words, Hawk held up the fist-sized stone, which still had a length of twine tangled around it.
“Part of it isn’t in English,” added Raven as he offered the muddied note to the earl.
Wrexford took the paper and read it over, then handed it to Charlotte without comment.
It took her only a moment to take in the short message. She looked up, trepidation glimmering in her eyes.
“Off you go, Weasels,” he said gruffly. “M’lady and I wish to discuss this in private.”
“Don’t forget about the house rule that says everyone in our inner circle is entitled to attend a council of war,” responded Raven. “Just because we’re not at home at Berkeley Square in London doesn’t mean that it is any less binding.”
“She and I are merely going to share some thoughts.” He wasn’t ready to reveal the news about the murder quite yet. “If a council of war is necessary, I daresay it can wait until morning.”
It was likely wishful thinking, but he was hoping that Kit and Cordelia would decide to take an interlude of peace and quiet on their wedding night before having their world turned upside down by the Grim Reaper.
* * *
“What are they hiding from us?” asked Hawk once he and his brother had passed through the opening in the privet hedge and into the herb garden behind the kitchen.
“Dunno,” muttered Raven.
“Atten-dezz vooos, mess am-ees,” said Hawk, tentatively sounding out the foreign phrase written on the note. “What does that mean?”
“It means Beware, my friends,” replied Raven. Cordelia had been tutoring him in French as well as mathematics so that he could read the works of the legendary French mathematicians Joseph Fournier and René Descartes in the original.
“Attendez-vous, mes amis!” he repeated with perfect pronunciation, then added the rest of the message, which had needed no translation. “Things are not always as they seem. Look beyond the obvious.”
Hawk scrunched his face in thought. “What do you think the rock thrower is trying to tell us?”
“A good question,” said his brother. “But an even more important one is, why did he write part of the warning in French?”