CHAPTER 3
The wheels of the carriage clattered to a halt in front of a handsome stone building on Bond Street. Raven threw open the door and scrambled out, with Hawk and Peregrine right on his heels.
“Mind your manners,” called Charlotte as she and McClellan climbed down to the pavement.
The stalwart Scot—a plain-faced woman with greying hair and perceptive eyes—served as Charlotte’s personal maid.
But she was far more than that. Trusted confidante, occasional sleuth, firm-handed taskmaster of the Weasels, baker of ambrosial ginger biscuits—McClellan was, in a word, the glue that helped bind their household together.
“And remember, no hijinks,” added Charlotte.
The boys had recently begun taking fencing lessons at Angelo’s Academy and were being taught by the illustrious Harry Angelo himself.
The famous fencing master had confided to Wrexford that he much preferred teaching such clever pupils rather than his usual clientele of overfed aristocrats.
“Peregrine is far too well-behaved to make any mischief. But let us pray that the Weasels don’t think it a funny jest to prick some starchy lord in the arse with their blades,” said McClellan after watching the boys race helter-pelter through the front door.
“That’s not amusing, Mac.” Though in fact it was. Charlotte began to imagine a drawing of half-clad aristocrats fleeing in terror from a sword-wielding imp . . . then reluctantly forced her attention back to the long list of errands in her hand.
“Lud, we have a lot of shopping to do. There are a myriad things that Peregrine needs for the upcoming school term.”
They started walking.
“A half dozen new shirts, several books on Roman history from Hatchards, a cricket bat,” intoned Charlotte as she read over the items. “By the by, where do you think we should look for—” She turned, just in time to see McClellan’s eyes widen and the color drain from her face.
“Mac!” Charlotte stopped short for an instant, then rushed forward as the maid staggered and slumped against the storefront two doors down from Angelo’s Academy.
“Sorry, sorry!” McClellan steadied herself and gave an apologetic grimace. “I—I don’t know what came over me. I felt a sudden rush of—of nausea.” The maid drew a shuddering breath. “I must have eaten a bad kipper for breakfast.”
Charlotte gave a hurried look up and down the street but saw only the backs of three gentlemen walking leisurely toward Conduit Street. “Don’t move. I’ll summon a hackney so we may return home—”
“No, please! I’m perfectly fine now . . .”
To Charlotte’s eyes, McClellan still looked awfully green around the gills.
“As you said, we have a great deal to do, so we ought not lollygag,” added the maid.
“Good heavens, don’t be ridiculous—”
“Please! Let us not make a mountain out of a molehill. I’m quite recovered now and prefer to continue with our errands.”
Something in the maid’s voice made Charlotte swallow her objections. “Very well. If you are sure, we’ll go on to Hatchards.” The bookstore was quite close. “From there, we’ll decide how to proceed.”
On reaching the shop, Charlotte insisted that McClellan sit quietly in one of the reading nooks while she and the head clerk moved through the bookshelves collecting the titles on her list. The task done, she sent the fellow to find a hackney before rejoining the maid.
“Come, we are returning to Berkeley Square,” announced Charlotte in a voice that brooked no argument.
McClellan rose—a little unsteadily—and followed without a word. The short ride home also passed in silence. It wasn’t until the two of them were settled in one of the parlors and a pot of strong tea had been served that Charlotte spoke again.
“Mac . . .” She put her cup down untasted. “Now that a touch of color has finally returned to your face, why don’t you tell me what’s really wrong.”
* * *
Cutting across the historic swath of grass—Mob Quadrangle was the oldest university courtyard in all of Britain—Wrexford approached the small group of silver-haired gentlemen in academic robes who were milling around the entrance to the library.
Up close, their expressions were just as black as the somber-colored wool.
“Milord!” The Reverend Mr. Peter Vaughan, who was the Warden of Merton College, looked around in surprise. “Good heavens, the body was just discovered several hours ago. H-How did you know—”
“I didn’t,” Wrexford cut in. “Greeley sent a note asking me to pay him a visit. I left London early this morning.”
“You must have pushed hard to make such good time,” commented the rector, a big, beefy man whose ruddy complexion hinted at an overfondness for port. As part of his official college duties, he served as an advisor to the Warden.
The earl ignored the remark. Until he knew more about the crime, he had no intention of revealing anything about the contents of Greeley’s missive and why he had chosen to come so quickly.
“Well, I’m very grateful that you are here, sir.” The Warden blew out his cheeks. “What a terrible tragedy. Greeley was well respected by all who worked with him. I—I can’t imagine what provoked such a heinous crime.”
Another shaky sigh. “The murder at Magdalen College last month, and now this . . .” The Warden swallowed hard. “Ye heavens, do you think there is some madman on the loose with a grudge against academics?”
Wrexford had investigated the Magdalen murder for the government but wasn’t at liberty to reveal the details. “I think it best for me to have a look at the body before we let our imaginations run wild.”
“Yes, quite right, milord.” The Warden cleared his throat. “Greeley—that is, his mortal remains—are in his office, which is—”
“I do know where the librarian’s office is,” said Wrexford as he took a step toward the door. “Unlike many students, I actually read a great many of the books in our collections during my time here.”
The Warden and his group of advisors hastily shuffled aside, allowing him to throw it open and enter the Lower Library.
Without pausing, he headed to the narrow stairs and took them two at a time to the Upper Library, which held the bulk of the library’s treasures.
The librarian’s office lay to the right, down the South Wing’s central walkway.
Sunlight flooded through the lovely oriel window at its end, filling the small foyer that connected the two wings with an ethereal light.
But as soon as he made the turn into the West Wing, Wrexford found himself shrouded in shadows. A fitting metaphor, he reflected, of the task that lay ahead.
The door to the librarian’s office was closed. He lifted the latch and stepped inside.
Greeley’s corpse was still in the chair but had been covered with a sheet of white linen.
A young man with a shock of unruly hair was kneeling beside the body, gently smoothing the rumples from the length of cloth lying over the outstretched legs.
He looked up at the earl, his eyes pooled with sorrow.
“M-Mr. Greeley was a very nice man,” he stammered. “Why would anyone want to hurt him?”
“A good question.”
The young man blinked in confusion as he took in the earl’s elegant clothing and polished boots. “The mortuary men have been summoned. B-But you can’t be . . .”
“No. I’m an old friend.” Wrexford glanced at the desk, hoping that the scene hadn’t been disturbed. “And you are?”
“Robert Quincy, sir. Mr. Greeley’s assistant.” Quincy’s look of sorrow pinched to one of guilt. “If only I hadn’t left him alone last night—”
“Don’t torture yourself with recriminations, Mr. Quincy.
” The earl took a moment to survey the rest of the small office.
It was crammed with books and papers, messy perhaps, but with an underlying sense of order.
Nothing seemed amiss. “As of yet, we have no idea why Greeley was murdered. Rather than sink into self-loathing, help me ascertain whether there are any clues that might shed light on what happened here last night.”
To his credit, Quincy rose and squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir.” A pause. “H-How do we start?”
“By you telling me what time you left Greeley here.”
“It was an hour before closing time, sir. I offered to remain and finish cataloguing a crate of manuscripts for the Radcliffe Library, but he said that he wished to do it himself.”
“Was there a reason?” asked the earl.
“I—I didn’t ask.”
“There is no reason that you would,” said Wrexford gruffly.
“But in a murder investigation, it’s always best never to ignore any clue.
” His attention returned to Greeley’s desk.
“Tell me, did you shift or remove anything—anything at all? And it is imperative to be absolutely honest. The slightest detail might prove vital.”
“No, sir, I did not,” answered Quincy without hesitation. He swallowed hard. “Y-You sound as if you have done this before.”
“Alas, yes,” muttered Wrexford. Clasping his hands behind his back, he leaned in to make a closer scrutiny. “You must have been in and out of here frequently, and so are familiar with Greeley’s habits. Does anything look odd to you, or is anything missing?”
Quincy approached and, mimicking the earl, he clasped his hands behind his back before beginning his scrutiny.
Wrexford liked that the young man was taking his time to look carefully before answering.
“None of Mr. Greeley’s things are gone,” said the young man. His brows furrowed. “But . . .”
“But what?” urged the earl.
“I’m not certain, but it looks like one of the manuscripts might be missing from the crate.
” Quincy leaned closer. “Mr. Greeley is—I mean, he was—meticulous about making sure nothing went astray when we were moving materials back and forth between the colleges and the Radcliffe Library, so I was careful to count them.”
“When did you give him the crate?”
“A little before four o’clock.”
So, likely that was before Greeley wrote the urgent note requesting a meeting, decided Wrexford. Otherwise, it would have been posted with an earlier Royal Mail coach.