Murder at Queen’s Landing (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #4)

PROLOGUE

“Halloo?”

A sudden gust of wind moaned in answer, its salt-sharp swirls tugging at the shoulder capes of the gentleman’s elegant overcoat. He took a tentative step into the narrow alleyway between the unlit warehouses, then drew in a shaky breath as his soft-as-butter Hessian boots sank deeper into the muck.

“I must be mad,” he muttered. But he couldn’t afford to ignore the summons, no matter that every bone in his body was howling that what it implied couldn’t be true.

“One, two . . .” Wincing at the squelch of every slow, sucking step, Hessian Boots felt his way along the grimy brick until he found the iron hasp of the fourth door. As promised, the massive padlock was unfastened, and the age-dark oak creaked open at his touch.

Fear slithered down his spine. It was dark as a crypt inside.

“Would that I could retreat,” he whispered. To carefree days of sun and laughter, of privilege and pleasure. But there was no going back. The only choice was stumble ahead and try to find a way—

A hand seized his arm, yanking him deeper into the gloom. The door thudded shut behind him.

“W-what the devil—”

“Shhhh!” hissed his captor, shaking him to silence. “Stay quiet, or you’ll get your throat cut.”

Hessian Boots felt panic rise in his gorge. “But why?” he demanded. “What your note implied is . . .” A swallow. “Impossible.”

A laugh, low and mirthless, as a flint struck steel and a tiny flame sparked to life.

Flexing his black-gloved fingers, his captor shifted the single candle and pulled a packet from inside his coat.

“See for yourself. I’ve made copies of enough documents concerning Argentum to prove that what I said is true.

Unlike you fancy, fork-tongued serpents, the numbers don’t lie. ”

In the flickering light, the oilskin seemed to dip and sway through the shadows, like a cobra about to strike.

Argentum. Ye gods, so it wasn’t a bluff. The man knew.

“How did you discover all this?” demanded Hessian Boots, keeping his hands fisted at his sides. He had been told that the venture was a closely guarded secret, known only to a privileged few.

“Never mind. What matters is that you need to stop it.”

“But . . .” A ruse—this was a filthy ruse to destroy all the imagination and hard work that had gone into the venture. Argentum would create a whole new world of opportunities for the future, so of course, there were those who would try to stop it.

By whatever means it took.

“But I can’t stop it,” lied Hessian Boots. “It’s too late for that.”

“You had better pray you’re wrong,” said Black Gloves.

Despite the damp chill swirling up from the river, sweat was dripping from his brow, the salt stinging his eyes. “W-what do you—”

A fierce bark suddenly shattered the nighttime stillness, its echo reverberating against the close-set buildings.

“You hear that? The night watchmen and their hellhounds are starting to make their round.” Black Gloves pressed in closer. “We can’t afford to linger.”

Hessian Boots felt the packet being thrust into his coat pocket.

“Good versus Evil . . . Read the documents and then you must decide which side you’re on. Trust me, your life will likely depend on your choice.”

The flame sputtered and went out, shrouding them in a darkness blacker than Satan’s maw.

His thoughts were spinning helter-pelter, so it took him an instant to react. “What do you mean? Who are you?” he demanded.

But a dull thunk and a flutter of chill air was the only answer.

After a heartbeat of hesitation, Hessian Boots edged his way to the door and found the iron latch. Pressing his forehead to the dank wood, he gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering.

Damnation—surely this must be some devil-cursed nightmare. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to wake. But the prickling splinters against his skin and the foul-smelling mud seeping through his boots were all too real.

A hound barked again.

The sound roused him from self-pity. Escape—I must escape. He wasn’t the only one at risk.

After easing the latch up, Hessian Boots opened the door a crack and ventured a peek. And thankfully saw naught but a shadowy gloom. Darkness, he realized, was now a blessing, not a curse.

Spotting no sign of life, he darted to the corner of the warehouses and after a small pause, ducked low and ran to take cover among the hogshead barrels stacked by the loading area.

The gate where he had entered wasn’t far. Another few minutes. . .

But then a blade of lantern light sliced through the thick fog, stirring pale curls of mist.

Heart hammering, Hessian Boots held his breath as fear suddenly fisted around his chest. It had to be a ruse!

His partners had warned him that jealous rivals would seek to stop the venture if word of it somehow got out.

Black Gloves had likely passed on falsely incriminating documents in order to foment mistrust and dissention. Or . . .

He forced himself to swallow his terror. Or perhaps there was an even darker explanation....

His thoughts began to spin, specters tangling with suspicions. Nothing was making any sense.

It seemed to take forever, but at last the sounds of the patrolling guard faded away. Which seemed only to amplify the ominous groans and creaks from the nearby wharves. Rusty metal . . . rotting wood . . . Hessian Boots released a sigh as another menacing thought crept into his head....

The worn-out bones of those who toiled in endless misery to make the rich even more obscenely rich.

“What a bloody fool I’ve been,” he moaned.

Water slurped against the barnacled pilings, the receding tide giving way to the stench of decay.

Hessian Boots slipped free of the barrels and hurried to a narrow cart path that led through another warren of windowless warehouses and out to the side gate set in the dockyard’s perimeter wall. Hugging close to the shadows, he quickened his steps.

A right turn and then a left turn . . .

A shove knocked him off-balance, and suddenly he was falling, falling—

“You can’t go that way,” warned Black Gloves, yanking him upright and pushing him back into the shadows. His shoulder hit hard against jagged brick as smooth leather-clad hands forced him into a narrow passageway between two windowless buildings.

“They’re waiting at the gate,” added Black Gloves. “There’s another way out. Follow me. The stone landing ramp can be crossed at low tide.”

Digging in his heels, Hessian Boots tried to shake loose from the other man’s hold. “Let go of me! I’m not playing any more of your filthy games.” He fumbled at his pocket, trying to reach the packet of papers and fling it into the mud.

“Don’t be daft.” Black Gloves tightened his grip and pulled him closer. “Trust me, if we try to leave by the gate, we’re dead men.”

“I don’t believe—” His words died in a gasp as a dribble of moonlight caught the lethal flash of steel.

Black Gloves had pulled a knife and was angling the blade upward.

“Damn you to hell,” rasped Hessian Boots, fear turning to fury as he heard someone else scrabble into the narrow passageway.

A trap!

He lashed out a kick that buckled his captor’s knee, then lunged and seized the hand holding the knife.

Punching, kicking shoving, swearing—Hessian Boots was vaguely aware of a third man joining the fray. Friend or foe? Impossible to tell. Reason had given way to the primal, primitive instinct to survive.

Steel sliced a gash across his knuckles. Recoiling, he swung a wild punch and heard a grunt of pain. The blade flickered, a quicksilver gleam against the dark blur of bodies.

Hessian Boots punched again and for an instant felt a sticky wetness beneath his fingers before a blow from behind knocked the wind from his lungs and sent him careening into the wall.

Run!

Was it a shout from Black Gloves or merely his inner voice of self-preservation?

“Run!” The cry came again.

Dizzy, disoriented, Hessian Boots gasped for breath, squinting through the gloom as the two thrashing shadows spun toward him. A strange cacophony filled his ears: the thrum of his own blood pulsing through his veins . . . amplified by a strange thudding.

And then suddenly from the maze of warehouses rose flashes of light bouncing wildly off the bricks, punctuated by shouts and snarling barks.

It was the thought of gnashing teeth tearing at his flesh that roused him.

Evading a grab at his coat, Hessian Boots pushed away from the wall and plunged deeper into the passageway, following it blindly until at last he saw a glimmer of lamplight and the silhouette of the stone landing ramp up ahead.

Slipping, sliding, he raced across the still-wet muck and somehow managed to reach the street.

Run!

Gut churning, legs pumping, boots pounding the cobbles, he willed himself to go faster, praying for escape from the hounds of hell snapping at his heels.