CHAPTER 19
The street where Garfield had his rooms was deserted and the buildings dark. The residents of the area were shopkeepers and clerks, sober citizens who couldn’t afford the luxury of midnight revelries.
Wrexford made short work of opening the lock of the lodging house’s front door, Once inside, he and Sheffield moved noiselessly to the stairs.
“Garfield is on the top floor,” whispered the earl. “His rooms are the door on the right.”
Sheffield heaved a martyred sigh. “Do try to frighten the truth out of him quickly. I’ve already worked up a terrible thirst.”
They felt their way up the stairs and crept across the landing to Garfield’s door. Wrexford crouched down and felt for the keyhole . . . only to have the door yield to his touch.
Not a good omen.
He eased it all the way open and signaled for Sheffield to follow him inside. He turned and locked the door before striking a light to the taper on the candlestand.
A small flame sparked to life.
Nothing looked amiss in the sitting room. The bedchamber door was closed, and the only sound disturbing the late-night silence was the muted rhythmic ticking of the mantel clock.
Wrexford moved quietly across the room, but as he touched the door latch a sharp metallic scent warned him of what he was going to find inside.
Sheffield smelled it too, for he let out a wordless hiss.
The taper’s light showed Garfield lying in a twisted position, one arm extended on the dark wood floor. His sightless eyes were widened in shock, the left breast of his white nightshirt stained garnet-red by the spreading circle of blood.
The earl knelt beside the body and felt for a pulse. “He’s dead. The flesh is slightly cool, so I would guess it happened around an hour ago.”
Sheffield looked around. “He doesn’t appear to have put up a struggle.”
“Hard to say,” replied Wrexford, taking his time to observe every detail of the corpse. “I—”
He stopped short and held the flame closer to Garfield’s right hand, which was lying palm down, the bloodied forefinger extended.
“Have a look at this,” he said.
Sheffield crouched down beside him. “Holy Hell, he’s drawn some sort of marks on the floorboard. It looks like two letters, with a line between them. . .” He squinted at the reddish tracing. “Is the first letter . . . an ‘O’?” He looked up in dismay. “A-And . . . second one a ‘C’ ?”
“Yes, it looks so to me.” Wrexford drew in a troubled breath. “Which doesn’t bode well for Oliver Carrick.”
* * *
Mist rippled over the dark water. Ghosting through the tall reeds and marsh grasses growing along its bank, Raven and Peregrine approached the tall perimeter wall surrounding a private estate—a grand Tudor manor house and grounds set on the River Thames adjacent to Fulham Palace and its magnificent botanical gardens.
Mademoiselle Benoit’s hackney carriage had just passed through its main gates.
The Weasels had quickly climbed down from their carriage and paid the driver to wait in a cul-de-sac for their return.
But rather than risk having the three of them spotted sneaking into the main courtyard, it was decided that Hawk—as the smallest and most agile—would slip in and observe what was happening before they decided on their next move.
To their left, Raven noted a boathouse and a dock jutting out into the water. To their right, a majestic oak loomed up from behind the weathered stone, its leaves chittering softly in the night breeze.
“We’ll wait in the tree’s shadow for Hawk’s signal,” he whispered, indicating the landmark they had picked out for the rendezvous,
“What is this place?” asked Peregrine, once they had crouched down by the wall.
“Dunno,” answered Raven. He glanced around, assessing the best way to get up and over the wall. “But my guess is that despite its fancy trappings, nothing but dark mischief is happening inside it.”
“Oiy. Why else would mademoiselle—”
“Sshhh!” The sharp crunch of gravel rose above the other night rustlings. “It sounds like the hackney is leaving.”
A few moments later, a hiss from above caused them to look up.
“Mademoiselle entered the house,” said Hawk. “It looks to be a private residence. There are no guards or dogs patrolling the grounds.”
“Then let’s take a closer look at what’s going on.” Raven was already on his feet, his hands fisted in the thick vines of ivy that were growing up the wall. He joined his brother atop the decorative limestone coping and waved for Peregrine to join them.
The stately house was dark, save for the glow of lamplight flickering in the windows of a room overlooking the back terrace.
“It took some fierce knocking on the door for someone to let mademoiselle in,” explained Hawk. “I don’t think she was expected.”
“It looks like m’lady and Wrex were right to—” began Peregrine.
Raven hissed for silence as the terrace door opened. A short, stout woman—she was wearing a hooded cloak which hid her face—stepped out. “Fetch the box of tools from the mud room, and bring it down to the dock,” she called to someone inside as she lit a marine lantern.
Raven slithered down through the ivy on the inside of the wall and gestured for the others to follow.
“Move quickly to the dock—and quietly,” he said. “We need to see what they are up to.”
The newly mown grass muffled their steps as they darted to the far side of the privet hedge bordering the walkway, using it as cover to make their way down the sloping lawn to the river. A cluster of barrels and crates on the dock provided a hiding place . . .
“Hell’s bells—it’s a steam launch!” intoned Peregrine, stopping short as he caught a glimpse of the dark-on-dark engine and chimney rising up from the middle of the boat tied to the mooring cleats.
“Stop gawking and hide yourself,” ordered Raven, though he, too, was mesmerized for a moment by the sight.
Wrenching his gaze away, he ducked under a coil of rope hanging from an iron stanchion and inched the crates apart just enough to create a peephole.
“Hold still,” he warned as footsteps thudded onto the dock’s wooden planking.
The eddying currents swirled against the pilings with a deep-throated gurgling.
“Remember to stoke the boiler slowly, Jed.” It was the woman’s voice, steely with the note of command. “This particular grade of cast iron can crack if heated too quickly.”
“Aye, Mrs. Guppy.”
“Better check the coal bin as well. We should have enough fuel for tonight’s journey, but best to be prepared.” A pause. “I’ll leave you to get everything ready while I return to the house and fetch our passenger. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”
Her retreating footsteps were soon swallowed by the crackle and whoosh of the steam engine coming to life. Metal clanked against metal as the boatman checked the level of the coal and muttered an oath. Raven saw him take up a large canvas sack and head for the boathouse.
“Mrs. Guppy—” began Hawk.
“Is a friend of the missing Mr. Carrick,” finished Raven. “And so is Mademoiselle Benoit.”
“Are you thinking that—”
“Yes,” said Raven. “There’s a chance they are going to rendezvous with him.
” There was no time to dither—he made a decision.
“You two hurry back to Town and tell Wrex and m’lady what we’ve discovered.
” He passed over the purse, which was still well filled with coins.
“I’m going to stow away in the boat and see what they are up to. I’ll return as quickly as I can.”
“But—”
Raven had already slipped over the rail of the launch. In a flash, he wriggled his way inside the storage locker built into the prow of the boat and pulled the door shut just as Mrs. Guppy’s helper emerged from the boathouse, dragging a bulging coal sack in his wake.
* * *
“Dead?” Charlotte needed a moment to collect her wits. Both she and Cordelia had dozed off while reading in the parlor as they waited for Wrexford and Sheffield to return, and her mind was a bit muzzy. “But I don’t understand. I thought you went to confront Wayland—and yet you found Garfield dead?”
“Wayland wasn’t at his usual haunt,” explained the earl. “Nor was he at the Albany, so I wished to press Garfield further on why he thought Wayland was the most likely suspect for Milton’s murder.”
“W-Wouldn’t the fact that Garfield is now dead seem to indicate that Wayland is indeed the villain?” ventured Cordelia.
“I fear that may not be true, my love,” said Sheffield gently. “We found some evidence at the scene of the crime that . . .” He paused to choose his words with care. “That doesn’t look good for your cousin.”
The blood drained from Cordelia’s face.
Charlotte rushed to pour a measure of brandy from the decanter on the sideboard. “Drink,” she urged, bringing the glass to Cordelia and holding it to her lips as Sheffield kept a steadying arm around his wife’s waist.
“W-What evidence?” demanded Cordelia after choking down a swallow of the spirits.
“Garfield wrote something on the floor with his own blood,” answered Wrexford. “Both Kit and I agree that it appears to be the letters O and C.”
“I can’t believe . . .” The lamplight caught the pearling of tears on Cordelia’s lashes. “I won’t believe . . .”
“I know how difficult it is,” said Sheffield, pressing a palm to her cheek, “but I fear you must.”
Charlotte moved away to join Wrexford by the hearth, allowing the couple some privacy. “Do you think Henning could tell whether the murder weapon was the same used on Milton?” she said softly as he stirred the coals to life.
“Perhaps,” he answered. “That would mean . . .” He hesitated. “I did send word alerting Griffin to the murder. Otherwise I feared it would cause an irreparable breach in our friendship if it came to light that I had discovered the crime and said nothing.”
“But you are worried that asking him to send the corpse to Henning may reveal that the same knife was used in both murders. And that Oliver Carrick will become even more of a suspect, especially given the O and C written in Garfield’s blood.
” Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.
“Do you think Oliver Carrick is the murderer?”
Wrexford didn’t reply. Which was an eloquent enough response.
She, too, was having trouble thinking of an alternative, but before she parsed through the problem, a sudden shout caused her to spin around.
“Wrex! M’lady!” The pelter of racing footsteps in the corridor punctuated Hawk’s out-of-breath shouts.
The earl rushed to the door and flung it open just as the boy skidded to a stop, with Peregrine right on his heels.
Two of them. And there should be three.
Impelled by dread, Charlotte hurried across the carpet, her heart hammering against her rib cage. “Where is Raven?”
“On a steam launch chugging down the Thames!” replied Peregrine with undisguised envy.
“Ye heavens, why—” she began, but one look at Wrexford reminded her that flinging out helter-pelter questions did none of them any good.
“Quiet, everyone!” commanded the earl with a note of measured calm. “Let us begin at the beginning. Tell us what happened, lads—but do so without any unnecessary embellishments.”
They both drew in a deep breath, and Peregrine signaled for Hawk to go first.
“Mademoiselle Benoit left her residence about an hour after returning from the soiree and flagged down a hackney. It seemed awfully suspicious, and as we were tasked with keeping an eye on her movements, we decided that we ought to follow her . . .”
Taking turns, the boys recounted where the journey had taken them, and what had transpired on the estate’s dock.
“And so, we rushed back here as quickly as we could to tell you,” finished Hawk.
“This means—” began Wrexford.
“This means that Mrs. Guppy is in league with the Frenchwoman,” said Charlotte, trying to keep fear from bubbling through her blood.
“I can’t think of any way to view that in a good light.
” She pressed her fingertips to her brow, surprised at how cold her flesh felt.
“But perhaps my mind is not functioning clearly.”
“Never fear, Raven is far too clever and experienced to be caught,” pointed out Sheffield.
Wrexford, she noted, remained silent. No doubt he was thinking about the same grim fact that she was.
“The River Thames is notorious for its treacherous currents. Even men who are at home on the water fear going overboard.” Her voice wavered, and she moved to the window, pressing a palm against the chill glass to steady her nerves. “And Raven doesn’t know how to swim.”
“Actually, he does,” said Wrexford. “After the incident at the Serpentine Bridge, I took all three of our Weasels out to a calm spot near Isle of Dogs and made sure they learned how to stay afloat as well as deal with the dangerous eddies of the river.”
“Peregrine swims like a fish,” piped up Hawk. “He, too, taught us some tricks for navigating the perils.”
Charlotte felt her spurt of panic ebb. But not by much.
“What’s this about rivers?” McClellan appeared in the doorway, hair hastily pinned up and a heavy wrapper thrown over her night-rail. She fixed the ladies with a gimlet gaze. “Hmmph! I thought you said it was going to be a quiet evening and any council of war would wait until morning.”
“So we assumed,” replied Charlotte. “But the best-laid plans of mice and men—”
“And rats,” muttered Sheffield.
“Evil, slithering rats,” amended Cordelia.
“Name calling may help vent your spleen, but it does us no practical good,” observed Wrexford. He moved back to the hearth and braced his hands on the marble mantel.
“Why a steamboat?” he wondered aloud.
“There are countless wharves and docklands just in the stretch of river between Fulham and Isle of Dogs,” said Sheffield. “They could be going anywhere, so all speculation on our part is useless. We have no choice but to wait for Raven to return.”
The earl grudgingly nodded his agreement.
“I’ll go fetch tea and coffee,” said McClellan. “And a platter of ginger biscuits.”
At the mention of their favorite treat, Hawk and Peregrine quickly offered to help her.
“The resilience of youth is a godsend. It allows cheerful optimism in the face of unspeakable danger,” mused Charlotte. “While we are older and wiser to the vagaries of the world.”
The earl came to join her, his hand finding hers and clasping it tightly. “Kit was right to remind us that Raven is both clever and resourceful. He’s no stranger to trouble, and eluding danger is second nature to him.”
But it only takes one mistake. And nobody is perfect.
However, rather than cast a pall of gloom over the room, she forced an answering smile.
“Of course.” She drew in a breath. “And Kit is also right to remind us that for the moment, all we can do is wait.”