CHAPTER 27
“Griffin wasn’t at all happy at being informed that he and his men will find a dead man within the inner sanctum of East India House—and that you suggested he have the corpse taken to Henning,” announced Tyler as he entered the breakfast room.
He peeled off his gloves and poured himself a cup of coffee before adding, “Though judging from his querulous tone, my guess is he hadn’t yet had his breakfast.”
“Nor have I,” said Wrexford. It was only an hour or two past dawn, and his mind was a little muzzy. He gulped down another long swallow of his own dark brew, hoping to scald his senses to full alert. “Shirred eggs and toast will be out in a moment.”
“Griffin asks that you send him a note explaining what happened.”
The earl refilled his cup and blew away a plume of steam. “He will have to be patient. I’m not prepared to tell him anything for now.”
Tyler took a seat at the table. “Do you think Copley killed Fenwick Alston? By your account, there wasn’t much time for him to do it after he left you.”
“He could have done it on his way in. The two of them could have quarreled over strategy, and Copley decided his partner had become a liability,” mused Wrexford. “But it does seem out of character.”
“Then perhaps we need to think more about David Mather,” said the valet. “Given what Sir Darius and his friends told you, the fellow may not be an underling, after all.”
Wrexford pursed his lips. “That occurred to me, as well. In retrospect, he, of all people, was in a position to know that his cousin had discovered the fraudulent accounting going on within the East India Company. In fact, Henry Peabody might well have confided in him.”
“And then, suspecting that Annie Wright knew about it, too, he lured her to take refuge on an East India merchant ship with a promise of escaping danger,” suggested Tyler.
Finally, the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit together.
“It makes sense,” he agreed. “Mather has gained an expertise in finance, which makes him very useful to an illegal consortium. More than that, handling money for the wealthy and privileged has likely made him both jealous and ambitious to enjoy the same luxuries. I doubt that it would have been difficult to seduce him.”
Breakfast arrived, and the earl leaned back as Tyler helped himself. “Once you’ve filled your gullet, head down to the dockyards and see what other information you can gather on the merchant ship’s departure. It would be helpful if someone can confirm that Mather wasn’t on it.”
Tyler sighed through a mouthful of broiled kidney. “No rest for the weary.”
“I don’t pay you to sleep.”
Another mumbled comment, which Wrexford pretended not to hear. He reached for a piece of toast.
“Your pardon, milord.” His butler appeared in the doorway. “But a message has arrived from—”
“From Lady Charlotte,” announced Raven, darting past Riche and slapping a folded missive on the table. Hawk was right behind him.
The earl eyed the muddy fingerprints—or were they paw prints?—on the once-pristine paper. “If your hands were cleaner, I’d invite you to have a muffin.”
Raven wiped his filthy palms on the seat of his pants, drawing a muffled laugh from Tyler. “Consuetudinis magna vis est,” he replied with a shrug.
Old habits die hard. Wrexford’s mouth twitched. “Be that as it may, whatever is smeared on your fingers is robbing me of my appetite.”
“But it’s only—” Hawk swallowed the rest of his words as his brother kicked his shin.
The earl unfolded the note and skimmed the contents.
“As luck would have it, Lady Charlotte is taking tea with Lady Peake this morning and requests my presence. That will allow me to tell her of our thoughts concerning Mather.” He looked up.
“Weasels, kindly fetch paper and pencil from my workroom. I need to write a response, and then I also want to send a message to—”
“Your pardon, milord.” The butler reappeared in the doorway. “But another missive has arrived.” This one, a fancy piece of folded stationery fixed with an ornate wax seal, he passed to the earl himself.
“The devil be damned,” muttered Wrexford as he read the note.
Tyler came alert. “What is it?”
“Lord Copley is requesting a meeting with me at White’s on a matter of utmost urgency.”
“When?”
“At noon,” replied the earl.
“Hmmph, in broad daylight on St. James’s Street,” mused the valet. “I daresay it’s not a trap. Still . . .”
“Weasels!” The earl snapped his fingers. “Paper and pencil, along with some sealing wax!”
The boys were back in a flash. He quickly scribbled out two notes and used his signet ring to add his official imprimatur.
“Leave this for Mr. Griffin at the Bow Street magistrates’ office,” he said, handing one of them to Hawk.
“But first, go tell Lady Charlotte I will meet her at Lady Peake’s residence at eleven.
Then head to Sheffield’s room and ask him to meet me there, as well. ”
The earl turned to Raven. “And you—you take this to Lord Copley. But listen carefully, lad . . .” He leaned in closer, coming nearly nose to nose with the boy.
“I want you to linger around his residence, and when he leaves, stick to him like a cocklebur until he arrives at White’s.
I wish to know whether he makes any stops or meets anyone else.
However, do it carefully, understand? He may be a murderer. ”
Raven gave a solemn nod. “Oiy, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“Then off you go, Weasels.” He watched them dart away and disappear into the corridor. Raven’s task wasn’t dangerous, he told himself, and the boy was too clever and agile to come to any grief. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of worry.
“He’ll be fine,” counseled Tyler. “Urchins are invisible to men like Copley.”
It was true. The raggle-taggle children who roamed the streets were beneath the notice of the beau monde—save when they weren’t there on the street corners to sweep the manure aside so the fancy aristocrats didn’t soil their elegant footwear.
Wrexford pushed back his chair. “Let us fetch our coats. We both have much to do before the clock strikes twelve bells.”
* * *
Alison’s brow furrowed in concern as Charlotte entered the parlor and took a seat beside her. Light winked off the lens of her quizzing glass as she raised it to her eye. “My dear, you look like death warmed over.”
Charlotte winced, finding both the word death and the scrutiny of a much-magnified sapphirine orb unnerving. “It’s rather unpleasant to stumble over a man who has just had his heart pierced by a knife.”
“Another murder?” The dowager gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze. “What a ghastly shock for you.”
Charlotte refrained from enumerating all the dead bodies she had tripped over since taking up A. J. Quill’s pen from her late husband. Some secrets were better left unsaid. Instead, she quickly explained about the foray to East India House.
“However uncharitable it is of me,” said Alison, “I find it hard to muster any sympathy for Fenwick Alston. He was a scoundrel who dedicated his life to corrupting good into evil.”
“He’ll foment no more trouble in the world,” said Charlotte. She, too, found it hard to feel any pity. Vives in gladio in gladio mori. Live by the sword, die by the sword. “But let us leave off speaking ill of the dead. It’s the living who concern me.”
“Copley,” said the dowager, her expression grim. “It seems there’s no chance now of getting the documents Woodbridge signed.”
“As to that . . .” Charlotte hesitated. An idea had come to her as she had tossed and turned in the hours of darkness just before dawn. But it would require the help of their friends and was not without risk.
“Yes?” urged Alison, her eyes alight with curiosity.
“I will wait until Wrexford arrives to explain,” she said. “Though I have a feeling he won’t agree to the idea.”
“What idea?” asked the earl as the dowager’s butler led him into the parlor.
Charlotte waited for his escort to withdraw before replying, “One that concerns retrieving the Argentum documents from Lord Copley.”
“The situation has changed,” announced Wrexford.
She edged forward in her seat. “How so?”
“Copley just sent me a note requesting a meeting at noon.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you think he wants?”
“It seems pointless to speculate,” he replied. “From the very beginning of all these intertwining mysteries, nothing has been what it seems. So, we shall just have to wait and see.”
* * *
With steady, light-footed steps—not too fast, not too slow—Raven wove in and out of the sun and shadows dappling the street, just another tiny flicker of movement in the vast tapestry of London’s unruly daily life.
Up ahead, his quarry marched along at a purposeful pace, head down, preoccupied with his own thoughts.
Like all the highborn aristocrats, Lord Copley appeared oblivious to the world around him, observed the boy. Never a wise decision. Trouble didn’t give a rat’s arse as to whether one possessed pedigree and privilege.
The way grew more crowded as Copley turned onto Piccadilly Street, heading for St. James’s Street.
Fancy carriages and high-perch phaetons clattered over the cobbles, cheek by jowl with drab dray carts and hackneys.
Up ahead at the corner, people were clustered at the curb, waiting for a brewery wagon filled with barrels to squeeze past a barouche.
Through the press of bodies, Raven caught a glimpse of Skinny holding his broom in readiness.
This was his regular street-sweeping spot, and business looked to be good.
Tapping his stick to his boot in impatience, Copley maneuvered his way to the edge of the street. Ducking and dodging elbows, Raven quickened his steps, not wishing to be caught up in the crush of people waiting to cross when the way cleared.
Out of the corner of his eye, the boy saw someone else start to move....