CHAPTER 4
“I would rather not,” replied McClellan. “Tell you, that is.”
Charlotte waited, giving the maid time to compose her thoughts. But no further explanation was forthcoming.
Outside in the entrance hall, she heard the noisy clatter of the boys returning from their fencing lesson.
Hoots of laughter, good-natured chatter—the sounds of everyday friendship in play.
While a sidelong glance at McClellan showed her features—always stoic to begin with—now looked as if they had been chiseled out of Highland granite.
“Why?” she finally asked.
In answer came a loud slurp of tea.
Sitting back in her chair, Charlotte folded her hands in her lap and drew in a measured breath. The refusal hurt, but she tried not to show it. She had thought their bond of trust went far deeper than a mere casual friendship between mistress and servant.
Have I somehow assumed the airs and graces of a pompous aristocrat and Mac no longer trusts my moral compass?
The thought made Charlotte’s stomach churn. “I’m grateful that you at least felt I merited an honest reply,” she said, striving for a light note, “rather than being fobbed off with a tarradiddle about rotten fish.”
McClellan’s expression turned even more stony, though for an instant a hint of emotion seemed to ripple beneath her lashes.
Unable to bear another moment of the stilted silence, Charlotte rose and forced a brittle smile.
“Well, I had better go and have a word with the boys. I need to tell Peregrine that I’ve purchased his books for school and remind Raven that Cordelia is coming this afternoon for his mathematics lesson. ”
“And I should head to the sewing room,” replied the maid as she began gathering up the tea things. “I should check that Nancy is making the necessary repairs to several of Peregrine’s jackets so they will be ready for him to take to Eton.”
Mac withdrawing, Peregrine leaving . . . it felt to Charlotte like her close-knit family was suddenly unraveling before her very eyes.
Tears prickled against her lids. And for a mutinous moment, her thoughts strayed back to her old life, where the fears were at least simpler . . .
Charlotte stopped short in the corridor, shadows flitting around her as if trying to swallow her in darkness. Squeezing her eyes shut, she summoned up a flash of images—Wrexford’s smile, Hawk’s gap-toothed grin, Raven’s fierce scowl of concentration as he puzzled out a mathematical problem.
“As if I would ever want my life to be any different,” she whispered, and then to her infinite relief began to feel her heart swell with light and love. “Family, friends . . .”
Ashamed of her mental whinging, Charlotte headed for the stairs, determined to set aside her worries over McClellan, at least for now. She and Wrexford had solved far more daunting conundrums. They would do the same with this one.
A sigh slipped from her lips. Though she couldn’t help hoping that the earl would deal with Greeley’s problem swiftly and return from Oxford soon to help smooth the waters here at home.
* * *
“Wrexford,” repeated the earl.
“Yes, I’m quite sure of the name,” said the gentleman without hesitation. “Greeley said it several times.”
“Bloody, bloody hell.”
“Do you know him?” Eyes suddenly widening, the gentleman let out a gasp. “Ach du lieber—are you thinking that he may be the killer? Shouldn’t we summon the authorities to—”
“I am Wrexford,” growled the earl. Seeing the other man shrink back, he hastily added, “And no, I didn’t kill Greeley.”
Which raised the question . . .
He rose abruptly. “Who the devil are you? And why shouldn’t I consider you a suspect, since you’ve just admitted to sneaking back into the library late at night?”
To the gentleman’s credit, he stiffened, looking more affronted than frightened.
“I, sir, am a respected scholar, not a cutthroat barbarian who would foully take the life of a worthy man like Neville Greeley.” He blinked, and belatedly added, “As for my identity, I am Ernst von Münch, librarian to King Frederick of Württemberg.”
Wrexford raised his brows. “You work for Fickle Freddie? That’s hardly a mark in your favor.”
Von Münch maintained a dignified silence.
The earl felt a grudging respect for the librarian’s reticence.
King Frederick was a highly controversial fellow.
A larger-than-life monarch—quite literally, as he stood nearly seven feet tall and had a prodigious girth that made him the butt of satirical drawings—he was loathed by a great many people for the self-serving switching of alliances he had made during the Napoleonic Wars.
For a time he had sided with the French, despite his close ties to the British royal family.
“I take it that your king came to London to help celebrate the centennial of his father-in-law’s family serving as the rulers of Britain,” he continued.
After the death of his first wife, King Frederick had married King George III’s eldest daughter, Charlotte, and his first wife’s sister was Caroline of Brunswick, the Prince Regent’s estranged wife.
“Yes,” replied von Münch tersely. “I have accompanied King Frederick to England, but not as part of his entourage for the celebrations. I’m here to do research at Oxford and Cambridge.
” He glanced at the bookshelves, his expression softening.
“I am a historian as well as a librarian, and as part of my official duties I am writing a detailed history of King Frederick’s life and ties to the British monarchy. ”
“It will require a very clever pen to cast your subject in a favorable light,” drawled the earl.
Von Münch finally allowed a twitch of his lips. “It is the victorious who usually get to write history, so yes, I understand that I may feel compelled to use some artistic license.”
A pause. “Allow me to say that I rebuffed the attempts of King Frederick to hire me until he ended his alliance with Napoleon and switched sides to join with Britain and its allies. I have no love for tyrannical despots.”
Wrexford was liking the librarian even more. But he quickly turned his thoughts back to the murder.
“Our political philosophies align, Herr von Münch. However, at the moment, I’m more interested in solving a crime than meditating on abstract ideals,” he replied.
“Think hard—can you recall any other detail about Greeley and his routine, no matter how small, that might help shed light on why he was killed?”
The librarian’s brow furrowed in thought, and Wrexford moved to the leaded glass window so as not to distract him.
Down below in the courtyard, the shadows were beginning to deepen with the hues of twilight.
Robes flapping like the wings of a raven—a traditional harbinger of ill omen—the Warden was hurrying across the grass toward the library’s main entrance, accompanied by a dour-looking man who was likely the local magistrate.
“I’m sorry, milord, but most of my time was spent in solitary study,” responded von Münch.
Wrexford turned. But before he could reply, the sound of footsteps came to life in the corridor.
“Wrexford!” The Warden paused in the doorway, looking flustered. “The magistrate is—”
“Is not pleased with your decision to have the body taken to London,” sputtered the magistrate, a dour-looking man whose face was bristling with indignation. “Highly irregular—”
“As Lord Grentham’s office may wish to be involved in the investigation, I thought it best to do so,” interrupted Wrexford, mouthing the lie without batting an eye.
He had recently done a rather large favor for Britain’s minister of state security.
And though the two of them were not on friendly terms—in fact, if forced to choose between trusting Grentham or a cobra, the earl would not hesitate to pick the snake—he felt entitled to exploit the minister’s much-feared name for his own purposes.
The magistrate paled. Given Grentham’s reputation for ruthlessness, few people chose to cross paths with him. “I-In that case, I—I shall, of course, defer to the minister’s authority.”
He backed off and scuttled away, anxious to distance himself from even a shadow of danger.
The Warden turned to Wrexford with an anguished look. “Of course justice must be served, milord. B-But I pray that you will be able to keep Merton’s august reputation from being tainted by any whispers of skullduggery going on within these walls.”
“I shall do my best.” After gathering up the document case filled with Greeley’s notes, he added, “I will spend tomorrow in Oxford visiting Greeley’s rooms and seeking further clues as to who might have wished him ill before returning to London.
However, I may need to come back, so please keep this office undisturbed until you hear from me. ”
The Warden nodded.
After a last look around, Wrexford headed for the West Wing stairs. Von Münch hesitated, then followed.
As they cut around the college chapel’s sacristy, a breathless hail echoed off the ancient stones, which were now shadowed in twilight.
“Lord Wrexford!”
The earl paused and waited for Quincy to catch up. Someone was playing the chapel’s organ, the heartbreakingly beautiful notes of Mozart’s Requiem floating out through an open side door.
“I’ve discovered the title of the manuscript, sir!” The young man’s face was flushed with excitement. “The under-librarian and I cross-checked through the ledgers, and we found it.” He offered the earl a slip of paper.
“Well done, Mr. Quincy,” said Wrexford as he unfolded it and read what was written.
Nihil Est Quod Hominum Efficere Non Possit.
Dredging up his schoolboy Latin, he translated the words—There is nothing that man can’t accomplish. It meant nothing to him, but perhaps one of his fellow members at the Royal Institution would have some idea of what sort of information the manuscript contained.