CHAPTER 24 #2
Such morbid thoughts were chased away by McClellan’s hail from downstairs, announcing that the dowager and her young relative had arrived.
“Come, let us all go down and greet Alison and Horatio. I am looking forward to meeting the young man.”
Harper took the invitation to include him and shook off his nap with a gusty yawn.
“Mac has been busy in the kitchen,” added Charlotte as they all trooped toward the stairs. “Do try not to make yourselves sick with freshly baked ginger biscuits.”
The hound flashed his teeth in a canine grin, which swiftly gave way to an injured woof as Hawk wagged a finger and said, “That means you. Sweets are very bad for dogs.”
Horatio was introduced to Charlotte, who welcomed him with open arms as the boys exchanged exuberant hugs with Alison.
“You may add these to the platter of biscuits,” drawled the dowager, handing Raven a bag of Pontefract cakes. “However, don’t—”
“Make ourselves sick!” chorused the Weasels and Peregrine.
“Precisely,” she said with a laugh. “Now take Horatio up to your eyrie while m’lady and I enjoy a quiet cup of tea.”
Charlotte, however, had spotted the expectant gleam in Alison’s eyes. “Mac will fetch refreshments,” she said as the boys hurried off. “While we—”
“Begin our plotting,” finished Alison.
“Before we discuss that,” replied Charlotte, leading the way into the parlor, “you need to hear about the latest developments.”
The dowager listened in rapt silence as Charlotte recounted the details of Wrexford and Sheffield’s clandestine visit to the secret laboratory and the momentous discovery concerning the propeller.
“Hmmph.” Alison sat back as McClellan entered with the tea tray and then took a seat to join the discussion. “So, assuming Tyler’s chemical analysis goes as Wrex suspects it will, we now have proof that Taviot’s consortium caused the fire at Maudslay’s laboratory?”
“Correct,” confirmed Charlotte, accepting a cup of fragrant Oolong from the maid.
“And the drafts of Maitland’s upcoming speech for the gala reception wax poetic about the momentous discovery within the da Vinci manuscript—which, by the by, proves that someone within the consortium murdered Greeley—and yet we don’t think there is any such revelation in its pages.
So we have good reason to suspect that despite their experiments with a propeller, they haven’t succeeded in building a workable prototype for an oceangoing steamship. ”
“Which would mean that the consortium is deliberately defrauding its investors,” said McClellan.
“So it would seem,” she agreed.
Alison looked a trifle disappointed. “Are you saying that there is no reason for us to attend tonight’s soiree at Taviot’s townhouse? If Wrex has all the evidence he needs of their skullduggery to pass on to the authorities, then there is nothing left for us to do.”
“On the contrary, after thinking it over, I think it imperative that we make an appearance.” Charlotte blew away the plume of vapor rising from her cup.
“I’ve sent word to Wrex at the Royal Institution informing him of our plan.
But I think he’ll agree that we should be sociable and act as if nothing is amiss to avoid setting off any alarm bells. ”
“I dislike the idea of you two walking into the wolf’s den,” said McClellan. “But your reasoning makes sense.”
“I confess, I’m also curious to observe Lady Kirkwall, now that we know the truth about her brother,” admitted Charlotte.
“I have found much to admire in her. It disturbs me to think that she is aware of the blackness of his heart as well as the crookedness of the consortium—and yet can promote the venture with such calm confidence.” A shiver skated down her spine. “Do you think she knows?”
“I am the wrong person to ask,” answered the maid. “There’s no question in my mind that she and Taviot knew of their younger half-brother’s depravity. So I can’t help but think that the whole family is rotten to the core.”
“Lady Kirkwall’s late husband was also enmeshed in scandal,” mused the dowager. “It does raise unsettling questions.”
“Either she’s very, very na?ve,” replied Charlotte. “Or very, very evil.”
The spark rekindled in Alison’s eyes. “Well then, another reason to keep a close watch on her and her brother and see if we can discern which of the two possibilities is the truth.”
* * *
Wrexford made a second visit to the magistrate’s office on Bow Street, only to meet with another apologetic shrug.
It was, he knew, unreasonable to be so impatient.
Griffin had apparently been sent by the magistrate to oversee the murder investigation of a night watchman in St. Giles, and God only knew when the earl’s hastily scribbled message would catch up with him.
“If you hear from Griffin, send word immediately to my townhouse on Berkeley Square.”
“Yes, milord,” The clerk gave a pained sigh. “Be assured that I haven’t forgotten your request.”
Knowing that he was too unsettled to wait in his workroom for the Runner to respond, the earl sent word to Tyler of his intended destination and then headed to the Royal Institution to have a chat with Hedley about propellers.
The inventor hadn’t been able to offer any help to Cordelia concerning the amount of steam power necessary for propeller-driven ocean travel, but Hedley was fascinated by the question and had begun to think about the possibiites.
So the ensuing conversation was a welcome distraction from fretting over Griffin’s whereabouts.
Charlotte’s message informing him of Taviot’s soiree also required his attention. But after thinking through the ramifications, he agreed with her that it was a prudent move for her and Alison to attend.
Afternoon was fading into night when a messenger from Griffin tracked the earl down at Hedley’s laboratory with a note arranging a rendezvous at an out-of-the-way tavern in the slums of St. Giles.
Wrexford gathered up his portfolio of evidence and thanked the inventor for his time. “As always,” he said, “talking about the complex challenges of Progress with a man of your intellect is illuminating.”
Hedley gave a wry chuckle. “Though not always of practical use to you, milord.”
Once out on the street, Wrexford flagged down a hackney and headed east toward Soho Square, the glitter of Mayfair rapidly fading into the squalid shadows of the ramshackle rookeries.
As he descended from the vehicle—the narrow lanes demanded that he go the rest of the way on foot—Wrexford couldn’t help but wonder why Griffin had chosen the spot.
Given his seniority and sleuthing skills, the Runner wouldn’t be assigned to solving a crime in this area unless there was a good reason.
The reason soon became evident when Wrexford entered the seedy tavern. Through the fug of smoke and guttering lantern light he saw that Griffin wasn’t alone. And the man with him was unpleasantly familiar.
“Sorry,” apologized the Runner on catching the earl’s expression. “This wasn’t my idea.”
“Indeed, your friend is way too principled to have betrayed your current activities,” said Griffin’s companion. “Do sit, Wrexford, before you draw attention to us.”
There was little risk of that, thought the earl. The men who frequented this sort of place would make a point of seeing and hearing nothing. Still, he did as suggested.
“What are you doing here, Pierson?” he demanded.
At their first meeting, which had occurred earlier in the summer during the investigation into the murder of Peregrine’s uncle, the man had introduced himself as a mere dogsbody.
But Wrexford had since learned his name was George Pierson and that he was a top operative for Lord Grentham, the head of state security.
“I assume that you’ve finally learned that Taviot’s consortium was responsible for the fire at Maudslay’s laboratory,” Wrexford continued, “and likely behind the clandestine attack on the Royal Navy’s research facilities at the King’s Dockyard.”
“How do you know about the skullduggery at the King’s Dockyard?” countered Pierson.
A mirthless laugh. “Surely it’s not a state secret that Lord Lampson and my two wards were invited by Samuel Tilden to visit the naval laboratory. They happened to be there when it was discovered.”
He placed his portfolio on the tabletop. “However, let us not waste time talking about the intrigue among the competitors trying to build the first oceangoing steamship. I’ve more important crimes to discuss.”
* * *
“Ugh.”
The clacking and whirring of metal had given way to a queasy silence.
Raven, who was lying spread-eagled on the rug, squeezed his eyes shut. “I think . . .”
“I think we have made ourselves sick,” mumbled Peregrine. He, too, was flat on his back.
Harper eyed the empty platter and gave an indignant woof.
“I warned you,” said Hawk primly. He had returned to his school desk and was studying the scrap of fabric that Wrexford had ripped from his assailant’s coat collar. “I saved my share of Pontefract cakes for later.”
“As did I,” volunteered Horatio. “Sweets are a special treat, so I wish to make them last.” He grimaced. “The food served by the Royal Navy is horrible.”
“It can’t be worse than the swill they give us at Eton,” said Peregrine.
Horatio rolled his eyes. “Ha! Try salt pork and rock-hard biscuits teeming with weevils.”
“Ugh,” Raven clutched his belly and choked back a retching sound.
“Even more of a treat is to have so many wonderful books to peruse,” marveled Horatio. He was looking through a volume of colored engravings on moving mechanical devices that the earl had purchased for Peregrine, the pages angled to catch the lamplight from Hawk’s desk.
“I have an illustrated book on steamboats that recently arrived from America,” offered Hawk, indicating the pile of books beside his sketch paper. “Would you like to see it?”
“Oh, very much so!” Horatio scrambled to his feet.
“Here.” Hawk held it out, but as Horatio rose to take it, he froze, the air leaching from his lungs in an audible gasp.
The lamplight wavered while he fought to regain his voice.
“W-Where did you get that?” he demanded, pointing at the scrap of fabric that Hawk had been sketching.
* * *
“Save your breath, milord,” growled Pierson.
Wrexford glanced at Griffin, whose face was unreadable in the flickering of light and shadow, then drew his gaze back to the government operative and remained silent.
Shouts, laughter, the thump of pewter tankards punctuating the rough-cut curses of the tattered crowd clustered by the barman’s counter—the place was alive with all the little noises of downtrodden men drowning their sorrows, at least for the moment.
While at their smoke-shrouded table, Wrexford and Pierson were playing a waiting game.
It was Griffin who decided to end the stalemate. “Lord Wrexford, your note said that in addition to possessing evidence of other crimes, you also had proof that Lord Taviot was guilty of betraying our country during the Peninsular War.”
In answer, Wrexford opened his portfolio case and slid out the letter samples given to him by the Frenchman.
Pierson didn’t grace them with so much as a glance. “Forget those. You’ve got it all wrong.”
For an instant the earl felt a stab of uncertainty, but he quickly shook it off. “The traitor’s handwriting matches that of Taviot, and the dates of the diplomatic mission for the Foreign Office corroborate his presence in Lisbon,” he retorted.
“I don’t dispute any of that, but as I said, you’ve got it all wrong.”
“What are you saying?’ demanded Wrexford.
Pierson leaned forward and brushed the incriminating letters aside. “I’m saying that Taviot isn’t the real traitor.”