CHAPTER 7 #2
“You learn to be quick and nimble when you grow up on the street,” explained Raven as he moved to the large oak desk and began testing the drawers. “Otherwise you don’t survive—”
He gave a grunt when the bottom drawer didn’t budge, and pulled a needle-thin steel probe from his pocket. It made quick work of the lock.
“Now you can light the candle, sir, and do a search of the papers here while we take a look around the rest of the room.” After flint struck steel, Raven moved over to light a second candle from Sheffield’s flame. “Try not to make too much of a mess.”
“I think I can manage that,” said Sheffield dryly.
“You know what you’re looking for?” asked Hawk.
“I may be a bit bumbling on my feet, but yes, I’ll know what’s important when I see it. You two keep an eye out for any other papers or financial documents. But most importantly, look for any clue of where Woodbridge and Lady Cordelia might have gone. A letter, a guidebook, a map—”
“Right. Now let’s get to work,” urged Raven. “One of the keys to illegal entry, sir, is to be in and out as quickly as possible.”
The three of them fell to their appointed tasks, working swiftly and silently in the dim light.
Sheffield made a few low sounds in his throat as he sorted through some papers and shoved several sheets into his pocket.
He shifted and was just reaching into the very back of the drawer when Raven froze and waved a frantic signal to blow out the candles and be still.
Steps. The sound was almost imperceptible.
But someone was moving stealthily down the corridor.
Raven darted a look at the curtained window, then shook his head at Hawk, indicating it was too late to flee.
Instead, he grabbed up a heavy brass candlestick from the sideboard and rushed to take up a position atop the side table by the door.
Hawk signaled Sheffield to join him behind the sofa. “Be ready to run,” he whispered just as the door latch rattled.
There was a moment of silence, and then the catch released.
Raven raised the candlestick and held his breath.
With a faint creak, the door slowly swung open. The shadows stirred as a tall, black-clad figure moved cautiously into the study.
Another half step would give Raven the perfect angle to strike.
The figure appeared to hesitate, then slid a booted foot forward....
* * *
Charlotte followed the oily beacon of light across the cobbles and entered the smoke-swirled taproom of the Ship’s Lantern. After squeezing through the crowd of sailors clustered by the barkeeper’s counter, she found a stool in a shadowed nook and settled in to observe the activity around her.
The place was only moderately full—the tide was going out, so no ships would be arriving until well past sunrise.
A handful of junior officers wearing the uniform of the East India Company were scattered around the tables near the hearth, while a group of Royal Marines were getting drunk on brandy in the center of the room.
In an alcove at the rear of the establishment, stevedores were waging a game of darts, the low light from the wall sconces flickering over their sweat-sheened muscles.
Judging by the snarls and mutters, the stakes were high.
Charlotte had no trouble picking out Annie Wright, at work clearing tables. Squid’s description, while crass, was accurate. However, she made no attempt to attract the buxom blonde’s attention. She was looking for a more roundabout route to her quarry.
A few minutes later, a lone man entered, earning a friendly nod from the dark-haired barmaid serving the tables near the door.
A regular, decided Charlotte. She studied him more carefully as he made his way toward one of the empty tables near her.
A coat of decent quality but fraying around the edges .
. . linen going grey with age . . . boots that had seen better days .
. . A respectable fellow, but just barely—and slowly sliding into oblivion.
The sort who could be made to feel important.
A quick wave drew the dark-haired barmaid. “A tankard of ale,” said Charlotte, assuming the accent of the rookeries around the naval yards in Greenwich. “And one for ’im, too, as I don’t wish to drink alone,” she added, gesturing for the newcomer to join her.
“Much obliged,” murmured the man. As Charlotte had suspected, he wasn’t about to turn up his nose at the chance to keep his purse in his pocket. “You’re not from around here,” he remarked as he took a seat.
“From farther east along the river,” replied Charlotte. “Did a job fer a friend over on the loading docks.” She took a slurp of ale. “He warned me it was a dangerous place, but it don’t seem so bad.”
A grunt sounded in answer. Lifting his tankard to his lips, the man drained half of it in one prolonged swallow.
She scraped her stool closer to the table. “I heard talk that there was a murder on Queen’s Landing just a few days ago, but I’ll wager that’s just argle-bargle.”
“It’s not,” said the man, leaning in a little. He had a long, thin face, with sallow skin that reminded her of a cod’s underbelly. His eyes were equally colorless, but they had an alertness that boded well for her purposes. “There was a murder.”
“You’re bamming me,” she said with a note of skepticism. Men liked to gossip just as much as women. And knowing something that others didn’t made a fellow feel important.
“I’m not. The fellow’s throat was cut from ear to ear.” Thin Face smiled in satisfaction as she recoiled in shock. “I knew him. He came here often.”
“You don’t say!”
“Aye.” Shaking his head, he took another long swallow of ale. “A dirty business,” he said softly.
Charlotte signaled for another round of drinks. “What do you mean?”
His expression turned sly. “You would have to ask that Miss Nose in the Air over there.” He jerked his head in the direction of Annie Wright. “She was thick as thieves with the dead man and yet was desperate to avoid talking to Bow Street about him.” A nasty smile. “I can’t help but wonder why.”
“Why do you think?” she prompted once Thin Face had a fresh tankard of ale in his hands.
He savored a long swallow, prolonging the moment of being the center of attention. “She’s hiding something, of course.” After another swallow, he tapped at the side of his nose. “I know a rat when I smell it. And whatever it is, it just might get her killed, too.”
* * *
As the intruder edged into range, Raven swung down hard with the brass candlestick, aiming a blow meant to stun. The air rippled—
But at the last instant, the figure spun around and with a careless flick of his hand caught the makeshift weapon hurtling at his head.
“Hell’s teeth, I ought to birch your arse, Weasel,” said Wrexford as he snagged the boy by his collar with his other hand and hauled him down from his perch.
“Don’t ring a peal over the boys,” said Sheffield, rising from his hiding place. “It’s my fault—”
“Ssshhh,” hushed Hawk. “You’ve got to keep your voice down when you’re doing something illegal.”
“Non omne licitum honestum,” retorted Raven.
“True. Not every lawful thing is honorable,” said Wrexford.
He cocked an ear to listen for any sign of movement in the rest of the house.
Satisfied that their presence was still undetected, he marched Raven over to where the others were standing.
“However, we’ll discuss the morality of this little foray later. For now . . .”
He glanced at the desk and its still-open drawers. “Have you found anything useful?”
“A packet of financial papers hidden beneath a sheaf of bills from Woodbridge’s wine merchant—which I’ve pocketed,” answered Sheffield. “There’s still another drawer to examine.”
Wrexford pursed his lips. “Any incriminating evidence is likely tucked away in a less obvious hiding place.” He took a moment to relight the candle on the desk. “A globe, a fancy curio . . .” His gaze returned to Raven. “Any sign of a safe?”
“I haven’t finished checking the room, sir. But I noticed there’s several blank spots on the walls where paintings recently hung.”
“Woodbridge may be discreetly selling off some valuables,” mused the earl.
“We also must check Lady Cordelia’s workroom for clues as to what’s happened to her and her brother.
” A pause. “It’s come to my attention that she’s involved in some business interests that may have bearing on what dark mischief is afoot. ”
The weak light caught the flush of color rising to Sheffield’s face. “Whatever you’ve heard . . . it’s not what you think—”
“I have no idea what to think at this moment,” snapped the earl. “But now isn’t the time to discuss it. As the Weasels so sagely pointed out, we need search the place as quickly as possible and take our leave—preferably not in manacles.”
“Lady Cordelia wouldn’t do anything wrong—” began Raven.
“As a man of science, I come to my conclusions based on empirical evidence, not wishful thinking.” He turned away. “Now let’s get to work.”
Woodbridge’s study yielded no further clues, and the four of them quickly moved up the stairs to Lady Cordelia’s workroom. On opening the door and seeing all the books and papers stacked atop the storage cabinets, Wrexford made a face.
“Well, at least there appeared to be some order to her arrangements.”
Raven examined the nearest piles. “Most of it involves work on specific mathematical theorems,” he explained.
“See if you can spot anything that strikes you as odd or out of place,” replied the earl. To Sheffield and Hawk, he added, “And you two look for any correspondence.”
While they began searching, the earl moved to the desk. More sheets of mathematical equations covered the blotter. But when he shifted the papers to set down his candle, something else caught his eye.
Drawings.
He carefully cleared away the mathematical calculations and began to page through a set of intricate mechanical drawings.
Some showed a close-up of a specific part, while others appeared to depict sections of a complex assembly of gears, levers, and numbered disks.
As for the margins, they were covered in a hodgepodge of complicated mathematical equations.
Frowning, he waved Raven over. “Any idea what these are?”
The boy appeared equally mystified. “No, sir. I’ve never seen them before.” He leaned in to study the notations. “And I don’t recognize the mathematics. The groupings appear to be a series of calculations, but”—he lifted his shoulders—“I don’t know what they mean.”
“Hmmph.” Wrexford spread out the drawings and studied them for a moment longer. “It appears to be the plans for some sort of . . . machine.”
“For adding and subtracting numbers?” said Sheffield after a long look. “Wouldn’t that be a godsend.”
“It’s been done before, Kit,” said the earl. “Several centuries ago, in fact.” He continued to stare at the drawings for another long moment, then quickly shuffled them back into order and twirled them into a tight roll. “I’ll take these with me. Maybe Tyler will have some ideas of what they are.”
The call of the night watchman making his rounds on the nearby street floated in through the drawn draperies.
“Damnation,” muttered Wrexford. “Let’s be off. We’ve got plenty to puzzle through.” He tucked the roll under his arm. “Though the devil only knows where it will lead us.”