CHAPTER 9
“As always, it’s a pleasure to see you, milord.” The Bow Street Runner looked up from perusing the pages of his pocket notebook and signaled for the tavern’s serving wench to come take their order. “I confess, reading makes me hungry.”
“Everything makes you hungry, Griffin.” Wrexford took a seat opposite his friend at the none-too-pristine table tucked into a corner alcove. “Most especially a proximity to me and my purse.”
“Indeed, this is an unexpected pleasure,” replied Griffin after requesting enough food to fell an ox. “I thought you and your family were planning to rusticate in the country, now that shooting season for you fancy toffs is about to begin.”
The earl ordered nothing but a pot of coffee. “I’ve had my fill of things that go bang,” he said as the woman hurried away.
That drew a chuckle. Their most recent investigation together had involved recovering the plans and prototype for a revolutionary pistol. The hunt had set off a number of fireworks.
“Understandably so, milord. May you and Lady Wrexford feast on some peace and quiet . . .” Griffin hesitated, his lidded eyes intent on the earl’s expression. “Or is this not a purely social visit?”
“Alas, no,” replied Wrexford. “Much as I enjoy watching you stuff your gullet, this meeting is for professional reasons.”
The serving wench returned with a monstrous tray and placed several large platters on the table along with the earl’s pot of coffee.
“There’s been a murder,” he continued, once they were alone. “And I wish to engage your services to help me track down the killer.”
Griffin forked up a bite of shirred eggs. “If you need my assistance, then I take it the case is a complicated one.”
“Actually, it may be an impossible one. There is no discernable motive, and precious few clues.” The smoke-hazed air swirled as a gust rattled against the nearby window. “But I know how much you enjoy working miracles.”
Griffin carefully sliced off a morsel of ham. “Miracles will cost you extra, milord.”
“I expect no less.” Wrexford put an end to their banter by drawing a measured breath and recounting the details of Greeley’s murder.
“You say the man is naught but an acquaintance?” mused the Runner after taking several long moments to digest what he had just heard. “And yet your interest in the crime is far more than casual.”
He buttered a piece of toast. “I ask, milord, not to pry into your personal affairs but because the more I understand about the case, the better my chances are of helping you solve it.”
Wrexford watched the flitting shadows in the gloom behind the Runner. “Greeley was my late brother’s best friend. He survived a French ambush during the Peninsular War.” The earl looked down at his untouched mug of coffee. “My brother did not.”
Griffin quietly put down his fork and knife.
“The wounds left grievous scars, both physical and mental, on Greeley,” said Wrexford softly.
“That some miscreant has robbed him of what little he had left of life—and thinks that the crime will go unpunished—sits ill on my conscience. I feel that I owe it to both their memories to make sure that the murderer answers for his crime.”
Their gazes locked. “I want justice, whatever the cost.”
“Where would you like me to start, milord?” said Griffin without hesitation.
“In Oxford,” answered Wrexford. “I spent a day looking into Greeley’s life, but there is far more sleuthing to be done there.” He explained the specifics of the murder and the fact that a manuscript was missing.
“There’s a possibility that someone saw the killer entering or leaving Merton College,” added the earl. “Or that some small details of Greeley’s everyday life will provide a clue to follow.”
“I shall leave this afternoon, milord.” The Runner cracked his knuckles. “We will find the murderer, milord. No matter how well hidden, there is always a clue that will lead to the truth.”
* * *
“Hmmph.” The dowager Countess of Peake took a moment to polish her quizzing glass before raising it and subjecting Charlotte to a greatly magnified one-eyed stare. “Good heavens, I thought we were taking a respite from solving crimes.”
Charlotte gave an inward wince at her great-aunt’s use of the word we. Granted, Alison had proved both clever and resourceful in several of their previous investigations. However, sleuthing was far too dangerous for a lady of her advanced years.
But heaven forfend that she voice such a thought aloud.
“We are,” responded Charlotte. “Taking a respite, that is.”
As a treat for the boys before Peregrine went back to Eton for the Michaelmas term, the dowager had stopped by to invite them for ices at Gunter’s Tea Shop and then to view the cavalry maneuvers on the parade ground behind Horse Guards and the Admiralty.
And so Charlotte had reluctantly explained about the fire and the murder in Oxford, deciding it was better for Alison to hear the details from her rather than from Raven and Hawk, who would no doubt add their own lurid embellishments.
As for the unsettling incident at the King’s Dockyard, the boys didn’t know about the sketches she had copied, and Charlotte thought it best to keep it that way.
“We have resolved to leave both crimes for the proper authorities to handle,” she clarified.
That wasn’t precisely a lie, simply a little bending of the truth.
“I’ve merely informed you of certain recent events so that you aren’t alarmed by any exaggerations that Raven and Hawk might make to the actual facts.
But as I said, we are not becoming involved in any investigations. ”
“I see.” Alison regarded her with a critical squint, light winking off the lenses of her spectacles.
Charlotte maintained an air of innocence, hoping her cheeks weren’t turning a telltale red.
“Well, then.” The dowager gathered up her reticule. “If there is nothing else to add . . .”
She shook her head.
“Let us call the Weasels and Peregrine down from their eyrie and see if they have a hankering for some sweets.”
The boys were duly summoned, but only Raven and Hawk appeared. “Peregrine went to see Mr. Hedley at his laboratory in the Royal Institution,” said Raven. The inventor had given the boys an open invitation to stop by any time with their scientific questions. “He—”
“He wanted to show Mr. Hedley a sketch of his mechanical hound and see if it could be made to move by inserting a gear-and-spring mechanism,” finished Hawk. “If we walk there first, we can fetch him and then all go for ices at Gunter’s.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, sweeting,” said Charlotte. To Alison, she added, “Though that means a rather long stroll to Albemarle Street and back.”
Raven immediately moved to offer the dowager his arm. “We will go slowly, and Aunt Alison can lean on me for support.”
“And me,” piped up Hawk.
“Well, with two such stalwart escorts, I shall have no trouble navigating the distance.” The dowager gave them a fond grin. “Besides, I shall be the envy of all the ladies we pass for having not just one but two handsome young gentlemen attending me.”
Raven made a rude sound. “Ha! You know very well that we’re not gentlemen.”
“Yes,” said the dowager, a wink of mischief lighting her sapphirine eyes. “But Polite Society doesn’t know that, which makes it all the more amusing to cock a snoot at them.”
She placed a hand on Raven’s sleeve. “Come, let’s be off.”
* * *
“Wrex—” Sheffield stopped short at the entrance of White’s on seeing Wrexford come out of the exclusive gentlemen’s club and start down the marble stairs. “Are you headed off on some errand?”
“Yes,” he answered. “I wish to pay a visit to the British Museum and see if the scholarly staff there has ever heard of the manuscript that was stolen from the Merton College Library.”
“That makes some sense,” responded Sheffield. “But . . .” He hesitated. “But might you put that mission off for an hour or two? I’m hoping you can accompany me to a lecture at the Royal Institution, which begins shortly.”
“Kit, much as I enjoy scientific—”
“It’s important, Wrex,” interrupted his friend. “I’ll explain why, but first you need to hear the lecture.”
The earl hesitated. A small delay in talking with the museum’s scholars wouldn’t make a difference....
And the look on Sheffield’s face told him it was no idle request. “Very well. I’ll come with you.”
It was only a short stroll to Albemarle Street and the imposing classical facade of the Royal Institution, one of Britain’s leading scientific societies. Sheffield quickened his steps, leading the way down to the main auditorium, where the featured speaker was just coming to the podium.
A rhythmic whoosh-clang suddenly began to sound from behind the crimson velvet curtain hanging on one side of the stage.
“That’s the Honorable Reginald Maitland. He’s giving the presentation,” explained Sheffield as they settled into their seats.
“Reginald Maitland,” repeated Wrexford. “Why does that name strike a bell?”
“He was at Oxford with us. A very scientifically minded fellow. In fact, many people thought him nearly as brilliant as you. But your interests didn’t overlap.”
The earl studied the man’s face as he set his folder of notes down and began to shuffle through the pages. He looked vaguely familiar.
“As I recall,” observed Wrexford, as a few hazy details came floating back to mind, “Maitland had a very high opinion of himself.” A pause. “One that was unmerited on the cricket field.”
“A great many fellows don’t show well during their university days.” His friend smiled. “I seem to recall that there were more than few people who thought your social graces left much to be desired.”
The earl ignored the barb.
“At that age, we are young and foolish—and full of hubris. But people can change,” said Sheffield dryly. “Just look at me.”
The earl gave a rude grunt.